“Hah!” said Morny, giving vent to a long deep sigh.
“Uncle Paul always says that there is so much good to do in the world that there is no room for animosity or hatred, especially as life is so very short. Here, I don’t see that we English have done anything worse to you French than conquering you now and then.”
“What!” cried Morny. “What have you to say to the way in which you treated your prisoners? You were never taken captive with your father—I mean your uncle, and shut up in a great cheerless building right out upon a cold, bleak, dreary moor.”
“No,” said Rodd gravely.
“My father and I were, after a sea-fight in which one of your great bullying ships battered our little sloop of war almost to pieces and took us into Plymouth, not conquered, for our brave fellows fought till nearly all were killed or wounded.”
“I say,” cried Rodd earnestly, “I didn’t know about this! Were you wounded?”
For answer Morny with flashing eyes literally snatched up his shirt-sleeve, baring his thin white left arm and displaying in the fleshy part a curious puckering and discoloration, evidently the scar of a bad wound.
“Poor old chap!” said Rodd softly. “I say, how was that done?”
“Grape-shot,” replied Morny, drawing himself up proudly and deliberately beginning to draw down and button his sleeve.
“Did it hurt much?”