At length Colonel Wellmere broke silence by saying aloud to Captain
Lawton,—
“I suppose, sir, this Mr. Dunwoodie will receive promotion in the rebel army, for the advantage my misfortune gave him over my command.”
The trooper had supplied the wants of nature to his perfect satisfaction; and, perhaps, with the exception of Washington and his immediate commander, there was no mortal whose displeasure he regarded a tittle. First helping himself, therefore, to a little of his favorite bottle, he replied with admirable coolness,—
“Colonel Wellmere, your pardon; Major Dunwoodie owes his allegiance to the confederated states of North America, and where he owes it he pays it. Such a man is no rebel. Promoted I hope he may be, both because he deserves it, and because I am next in rank in the corps; and I know not what you call a misfortune, unless you deem meeting the Virginia horse as such.”
“We will not differ about terms, sir,” said the colonel, haughtily. “I spoke as duty to my sovereign prompted; but do you not call the loss of a commander a misfortune to a party?”
“It certainly may be so,” said the trooper, with emphasis.
“Miss Peyton, will you favor us with a toast?” cried the master of the house, anxious to stop this dialogue.
The lady bowed her head with dignity, as she named “General Montrose”; and the long-absent bloom stole lightly over her features.
“There is no term more doubtful than that word misfortune,” said the surgeon, regardless of the nice maneuvers of the host. “Some deem one thing a misfortune, others its opposite; misfortune begets misfortune. Life is a misfortune, for it may be the means of enduring misfortune; and death is a misfortune, as it abridges the enjoyments of life.”
“It is a misfortune that our mess has no such wine as this,” interrupted the trooper.