"Basil Gauntlet."
On hearing this, he started and became so visibly affected, that the soldiers of the picket who crowded round us holding their horses by the bridle, glanced at each other with inquiry and surprise. Brook surveyed me keenly for a moment, and then a sorrowful frown seemed to deepen on his features.
"Was your father ever in the service?" he asked, abruptly.
"He was an officer of Granby's Dragoons."
Then a malignant light sparkled in the eyes of Captain Brook, and he struck his spurred heel into the turf.
"Was my father your friend?" I asked, with hesitation.
"Friend!" he reiterated, bitterly; "no—no—not my friend. But your mother, what of her?" he added, in an altered voice.
"She is in her grave," I replied, with faltering accent; "else, perhaps, I had not stood before you thus to-night, a private soldier and a prisoner."
After a pause—
"My God!" said Brook, in a low voice, as he took off his helmet and passed a hand across his flushed brow. Then seeming to recollect himself, he said, "Fall back, sergeant; and fall back, men—picket your horses, and lie down if you please till daybreak, when the outpickets are called in. Leave the prisoner with me. Gauntlet," he continued, after we were somewhat alone, "step with me this way. I shall do all in my power to serve you, and to be your friend."