Time and experience had somewhat tempered the reckless tenor of his ways, and, though his boisterous manner was rather startling at times, I could not but deem myself fortunate in having a companion so well educated as he.
The story of Charters was indeed a singular one.
Five miles north-east of Dumfries there stands a tall, square, and ancient fortress called the Castle of Amisfield, between the two head streams of the Lochar. For centuries this great tower had been the stronghold and residence of the Scoto-Norman family of Charters, of whom my comrade, the corporal, was the last representative.
In that tower he was born and reared, until he joined the army as an officer. At the age of eighteen he found himself a lieutenant in the 1st Dragoon Guards, and the inheritor of a splendid fortune, which he lavished in London with the reckless prodigality of a Timon. He was at that time on leave of absence, seeking a transfer into a light dragoon regiment.
When rambling one night near Hydepark Corner, he heard the cries of a lady whose carriage had been stopped by footpads. He hurried to her rescue, and narrowly escaped a pistol-shot; but, closing with the fellow who fired it, struck him down, on which his companions fled, leaving Charters in possession of the field of battle.
The rescued lady proved to be a foreigner of very attractive face and figure, with bright blue eyes, and a profusion of fair hair, amid which, as well as on her neck and arms, many diamonds were sparkling. She was richly dressed, and was returning, apparently, from a ball.
"You will permit me, madam, to escort you home?" said Charters, bowing, hat in hand.
She entreated that he would not give himself so much trouble.
"But, madam," urged Charters, "those fellows may return, and I cannot rest until I know that you are safe in your own residence."
"But which is your way, sir?"