He rubbed his hands together and smiled with benevolent satisfaction. He had arranged to eat his own Christmas dinner at the unholy hour of three in the afternoon. He meant to see that all went well at the men’s dinner, and that their tea was sufficient. He meant to look in for an hour at the canteen festivities. He had promised to sing Christmas carols. From three to four was the only time left at which he could dine. But that thought did not spoil his satisfaction.
Digby saw, or thought he saw, his opportunity.
“There’s one poor fellow in the guard-room, sir,” he said. “Will he get any Christmas dinner?”
He winked at Miss Willmot as he spoke. This was the time for her to back up his charitable appeal.
“Ah,” said the Major, “I’m afraid I can’t do much for him. It’s a serious charge, a case of a Field General Court Martial. I’m afraid there’s no doubt about the facts. I’m sorry for him. He’s quite young; but it’s a disgraceful thing for any man to do.”
The Major’s face hardened. For many offences and most offenders he had some sympathy; but a man who sinned against the code of military honour had little pity to expect from the Major.
Miss Willmot looked up.
“Is it very bad?” she asked.
“One of those cases of self-wounding,” said the Major. “Shot himself in the leg with his own rifle.”
There are cases of this kind, a few of them. Some wretch, driven half frantic by terror, worn out with hardships, hopeless of any end of his sufferings, seeks this way out. He gains a week of rest and security in a hospital ward. Then he faces the stern judgment of a court martial, and pays the penalty.