The severe look in his face turned to smiles in half a moment. He showed me his wounds—a saber slash on his head, and a number of scars cut by bullets and flying fragments of shell. He asked me to feel his biceps, and I did so, not wishing to be impolite. Before I could step aside he had my head in chancery, and was making a new demonstration. The candle was knocked to the floor, and I struggled with Colonel Busby in the darkness, feeling a dreadful uncertainty of his plans. Soon he had pushed me into a corner, where I stood clinging to his waist.
“Unhand me, villain!” he commanded, and we released each other and I relighted the candle.
The Colonel took off his tie and collar, and as he did so whispered gruffly, and with a playful wagging of his head:
“'How ill that taper burns! Ha! who comes there? Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh. My blood grows chilly, and I freeze with horror.'”
I saw that it was all a kind of harmless frolic, and soon he proposed that we “knit up the ravelled sleeve of care.”
We got into bed, and fortunately the Colonel soon fell asleep. I had rather a bad night of it, for he snored and muttered, and was, on the whole, an irksome creature. In the morning he said little, and sat with a look of sadness. He went into the garden after breakfast, and Jo said to me:
“I'm sorry my father disturbed you. I didn't think he would do it.”
“Oh, that's nothing,” I assured her, bravely. “I hope it doesn't worry you.”
But I could see that my words had not relieved her unhappiness.
She went to school, and I spent the day writing letters—one to my mother and one to Mr. McCarthy, in both of which I set down much that I have tried to tell you. Then I composed a verse and engrossed it with great care. For such folly—praise God—I had always a keen relish.