At the door of the room stood a sentinel of the Volontaires de Clermont, with his musket "ordered" and bayonet fixed—the same fellow who had so violently possessed himself of my emerald ring.
"Monsieur le prisonnier is an officer?" said the Duke, bowing again.
"I have the honour," said I, while Bourgneuf eyed me superciliously through his eyeglass.
"In the British service, as I see by your uniform."
"The Ecossais Gris."
"Bien!" said the Duke, smiling; "I remember some of them. Your rank?"
"Cornet."
"Ah—it is unfortunate to be taken thus, with a rank so junior; an old fellow like me might wish for a rest; but you—ah monsieur! you may be long a prisoner if this war continues."
My heart sank at this remark, but I said,
"I am not without hope of effecting an exchange."