“No matter. I have come here to inquire whether you have a lad by the name of McCarthy a prisoner?”
“There is such a prisoner.”
“May I ask why he is a prisoner?”
“Certainly! For being suspected of treasonable connection with the enemy.”
“Treasonable connection with the enemy! Why the boy is sick and lame. He is, besides, my brother; and I have come to ask his immediate release.”
The officer opened his eyes; was sorry he could not comply with the request of so winning a supplicant; and must “really beg her to desist and leave the fortress.”
“I demand his release,” cried she, in reply.
“That you cannot have. The boy is a rebel and a traitor, and unless you retire, madam, I shall be forced to arrest you on a similar suspicion.”
“Suspicion! I am a rebel and a traitor, too, if you 194 wish; young McCarthy is my brother, and I don’t leave this tent until he goes with me. Order his instant release or,”—here she drew one of the aforesaid ivory handles out of her bosom and levelled the muzzle of it directly at him—“I will put an ounce of lead in your brain before you can call a single sentry to your relief.”
A picture that!