“It is magnificent.”
He quickly unfastened the splendid belt, twisted it round the weapon, and held it to me.
“It is yours, then,” he said. “You are weak from your wound, but you are still a soldier at heart. I give it gladly to my dear friend.”
“No, no,” I cried excitedly, surprised now at the strength of my voice, as startled by the richness of the gift, and ashamed that he should think I wanted it, I thrust it back, and he frowned.
“You refuse it?” he said. “Is it not enough?”
“You do not understand me,” I said. “I could not take such a rich present.”
“Not from your friend?” he cried, interrupting me.
“Well, yes, if he had thought of giving it to me,” I said; “but you fancied I wanted it, and I did not. It was not that; it was something else.”
“Ah,” he cried eagerly, “something else. Well, ask. I am very rich; I am a prince now, not your brother-officer’s syce. Tell me, and it is yours.”
I was silent, and after a few moments’ thought, he continued—