The colonel vouchsafed no explanation, but led the way into the dining-room. He selected a table in a corner, and thrust the menu over to Dick. The sick man’s eyes ran listlessly down the card, and he gave it back.
“I’m too done. You order. Perhaps, a drink’ll pull me up.”
The colonel ordered brandy. He was now able to get a better look at the returned hero. The change 213 in the young man shocked him, and he could see that the hand of death had clutched Dick harshly before letting him go.
“What was it—fever?” he asked, with soldier-like abruptness, as he scanned the lean, weary face.
“Enteric and starvation, and a bit of a wound, too. I was taken prisoner, but, when the ambulance cart was left in a general stampede, I was just able to cry out to a nigger to cut my bonds. He set me free; but, afterward, I think I went mad. I was in our lines, I know. It was a good old Yankee who set me free; but, when reason came, I was again in the wrong camp. The ambulance cart had got into its own lines again. At any rate, I was in different hands, with a different regiment, packed off to a proper prison camp. I sent word home, or thought I’d sent word. I thought you all knew. By Jove, what a lark it will be to turn up and see their faces!”
Dick took a long draught at the brandy, and a little color came into his face.
“I suppose they’ll be glad and all that, as I’m something of a hero,” he continued. “A chap on the train told me that the story of my capture got into the papers, and was written up for all it was worth. Another smack in the eye for Ormsby, that! Nutt got away, and told you I was dead, I suppose.” 214
“Yes,” answered the colonel, gloomily; then, leaning across the table: “Dick, my boy, I don’t want to be hard on you. We are all liable to err. Don’t you think it would have been better if you had remained dead?”
Dick looked blankly into his friend’s face for some moments. A look of fear came into his eyes.
“What’s the matter? What’s happened? Dora’s—alive?”