"Aye sir, and an evil tale it is and I'm a man o' few words—but if so be you've a mind for't——"
"I have, Zeb—proceed——"
"Well, it seems this Captain Effingham with his company had took prisoner a French officer in his own chateau, d'ye see, and meant to shoot same in the morning for a spy. But to Captain Effingham comes the officer's wife—young she was and very handsome, and implored the Captain to mercy, which he agreed to if she'd consent to——"
"I take you, Zeb!"
"'Twas for her husband's life and she was very young, sir—I chanced to see her arterwards. So the Captain had his way. Next morning, very early, comes a roll o' musketry. She leaps out o' bed, runs to the lattice and there's her husband being carried by—dead! So she falls distracted and kills herself wi' the Captain's sword and arter comes his honour the Major and kills the Captain. 'Twas a pretty bout, sir, for the Captain was a master at rapier-play and famous duellist—laid his honour's head open from eye to ear at the first pass and, what wi' the blood-flow and heavy boots I thought his honour was done for more than once—and if he had been, well—I had finger on trigger and 'twould ha' been no murder—him!"
"The Major killed him?"
"Dead as mutton, sir."
"Did you bury the villain?"
"No time, sir, we were a flanking party on a forced march, d'ye see."
"And you say Dalroyd is like him?"