“Whisht! I’m a prisoner; but I’m an officer and a gintleman.—Here, boy, ordher your min to carry me out of this.”
“My men!” I said, laughing. “I’m only a private, and this is my sergeant.”
“Thin ye ought to change places, me boy.—Give orders to your min to carry me out of this, Serjint.”
“I’m about ready to tell the lads to put an end to a traitor to his country.”
“Tchah! Ye daren’t do annything o’ the kind, Serjint, for it would be murther. This is my counthry, and I’m a prisoner of war.”
“Let him be, Sergeant, and we’ll get him into the camp.—Can you sit on a horse, sir?” I said.
“Sure, how do I know, boy, till I thry? I’ve been lying under that dead baste till I don’t seem to have any legs at all, at all. Ye must lift me on.”
“Officer and a gentleman!” said the Sergeant scornfully. “I never heard an Irish gentleman with a brogue like that. I believe you’re one of the rowdy sort that call themselves patriots.”
“Sure, and I am,” cried our prisoner. “But here, I don’t want any wurruds with the like o’ ye.—Help me up gently, boy, and let me see if I can’t shtand.”
“Take hold of him on the other side,” I said to the Sergeant, and he frowningly helped, so that we got our prisoner upon his feet.