“I was only doing my duty, Scar. I was sent out to take the party seen from our outposts.”
“Have the goodness to keep your pity for those who need it, crop-ear,” said Scarlett, scornfully; “and recollect that I am, though a prisoner, one of his Majesty’s officers, one who holds no converse with rebels.”
Fred’s cheeks flushed again, and his brow wrinkled.
“Very well,” he said angrily. “We are fighting on opposite sides, but I did not know that we need insult each other when we met.”
As he spoke he left the tent, and Scarlett winced, and his eyes softened.
“Poor old Fred!” he said below his breath; “and I used to think he was like a brother.”
It was a glorious evening as Fred Forrester strolled away from the tent, stopping to speak to one of the sentries about the prisoner in the little tent, though he felt that he need hardly take any precaution, for Scarlett was not likely to try to escape and leave his men behind.
“Wonder whether we shall ever be friends again,” he thought, “and be back at the old places as before. This terrible fighting cannot always go on. What’s that?”
A great deal of shouting and laughter in the centre of a little crowd of soldiers took his attention, and one of the voices sounding familiar, he walked slowly toward the group, hardly caring in which direction he went so that it was away from his tent.
“What are they doing?” he asked of one of the men.