“Yes,” said Morny rather contemptuously. “My father was wounded too, so that he had to be carried below, or else we should never have struck, but he would have gone down as a brave captain should with colours flying, fighting for the Emperor to the very last.”
“Then I am precious glad that the Count was taken below,” said Rodd.
“Why?” snapped out the French lad fiercely.
“Because of course you would have sunk with him, for you couldn’t have swum for your life with a wounded arm.”
“No; but shouldn’t I have had my name written in history?”
“Perhaps. But you and I would never have met and become such good friends; for you know we are precious good friends when we can agree.”
Morny laughed.
“Yes,” he said pleasantly, “when we can agree. But do you think it was good treatment to keep us shut up there as prisoners on that dreary moor?”
“Let’s see,” said Rodd; “Dartmoor—all amongst the streams and tors, as they call them?”
“Yes; a great granite desert.”