“Not succeeding! An officer, and a quartermaster in the bargain, and not succeed with a sergeant's daughter!”
“It's just that, Davy.”
“And why not, Lundie? Will ye have the goodness to answer just that?”
“The girl is betrothed. Hand plighted, word passed, love pledged,—no, hang me if I believe that either; but she is betrothed.”
“Well, that's an obstacle, it must be avowed, Major, though it counts for little if the heart is free.”
“Quite true; and I think it probable the heart is free in this case; for the intended husband appears to be the choice of the father rather than of the daughter.”
“And who may it be, Major?” asked the Quartermaster, who viewed the whole matter with the philosophy and coolness acquired by use. “I do not recollect any plausible suitor that is likely to stand in my way.”
“No, you are the only plausible suitor on the frontier, Davy. The happy man is Pathfinder.”
“Pathfinder, Major Duncan!”
“No more, nor any less, David Muir. Pathfinder is the man; but it may relieve your jealousy a little to know that, in my judgment at least, it is a match of the father's rather than of the daughter's seeking.”