"Wedlock, sir." The Major flinched, then turned to scowl:
"Be curst for a presuming fool, Zebedee!" The Sergeant immediately saluted. "Whom should I marry at my time of life, think you?"
"Lady Elizabeth Carlyon, sir."
The Major's bronzed cheek burned and he rode awhile with wistful gaze on the distance.
"I shall—never marry, Zebedee!" said he at last.
"Why sir, asking your pardon, but that depends, I think."
"Depends!" repeated the Major, staring. "On what?"
"The Lady Elizabeth Carlyon, your honour."
Here ensued another long pause, then:
"How so, Zeb?"