Bertha did not say anything, but looked at him with eyes wide open with surprise.
"I am sure, Miss Greendale," George went on, "that the Major never told you that the bad wound he received at Delhi that all but killed him, was my doing––that he was wounded by a ball from my musket."
"No, George, he certainly never said so. I suppose he was in front of you, and your musket went off accidentally?"
"No, Miss Greendale, I took deliberate aim at him, and it was only the mercy of God that saved his life."
Bertha was too surprised and shocked to speak, and he went on:
"He himself thought that he had been hit by a Sepoy bullet, and it was only when I sent for him, believing that I had received my death wound, that he knew that it was I who had hit him."
"But for what?" she asked. "What made you do this terrible thing? I thought he was liked by his men."
"There was no one liked better, Miss Greendale; he was the most popular officer in the regiment, and if the soldiers had known it, and I had escaped being hung for it, I should have been shot the first time I went into action afterwards. It had nothing to do with the army. I enlisted in his company on purpose to shoot him."
Bertha could hardly believe her ears. She looked at the man earnestly. Surely he could not have been drinking at that time of the morning, and she would have doubted his sanity had it not been for the calm and earnest look in his face. He went on:
"I came here to tell you why I shot at him."