“My good fellow, have you been drinking?” said Mark, with a forced laugh; “or is it a touch of sunstroke? Here, you had better make for the nearest stream, have a good draught of water, and then get back to barracks.”
“So that’s how Mr Mark Frayne would prescribe for sunstroke!” said Richard, sarcastically.
“My good fellow, we are not in garrison now, and I like to be kind and friendly to men in the ranks; but there are bounds. Recollect that you are addressing your officer, and do not be insolent!”
“Insolent?” cried Richard.
“Yes, sir, insolent!” said Mark, speaking in a low voice. “You have got hold of my name; but I am Sir Mark Frayne.”
“Mark Frayne,” cried Richard, fiercely, “and my cousin! Once more I tell you that this can go on no longer!”
“Are you mad, fellow?” said Mark, speaking beneath his breath.
“Almost, at being face to face with you alone after all I have suffered at your hands! There, set aside this miserable show of not knowing me! You recognised me that night of the ball. You knew me directly, though you tried hard to assume ignorance. Now, then, I don’t want to be hard upon you. I have held back from going to lawyers, for I have felt that it would be better if we settled the matter ourselves. Do you dare to tell me that you do not know me?”
Mark gazed at him searchingly, and then his face seemed to light up.
“Why, yes; of course, I know you now—the bandsman Smithson. Of course. You are the man who helped me out of the burning tent.”