“You will see,” he said, smiling. “Oh, well, there need be no reserve or form between us. You have been badly wounded, and you are dressed as one who has suffered. I have had more worthy garments brought for the great chief and brave young warrior, my friend.”
“My own uniform?” I said sharply.
“Yes; of your own design,” he said quietly.
“No, no; I mean my own—the Company’s uniform.”
“A noble uniform,” he said warmly; “because it is stained with a brave swordsman’s blood. I have it still, but it is cut, torn, and spoiled, Gil. It is something to have—to treasure up as one would a good weapon that has done its duty.”
“I must wear that or none,” I said firmly.
“No,” he replied gravely, as he leaned toward me; “you will never wear the Company’s uniform again. The great Company has passed away, as other great powers have passed before.”
The fierce words rose to my lips to say that this was nothing, for my people were; fighting hard to recover lost ground, but I checked myself. I did not want to insult a brave man who was my friend, neither did I wish to show that I had had news of the state of the country, so I said quietly—
“I told you last time that what you wish is impossible.”
He frowned, but smiled again directly.