The speaker’s face had flushed. His breast rose and fell.
“That was the first time,” he said. “The second was the other day when he was riding among the enemy’s guns near Bristoe—I made him out with my glasses.”
Darke bent down, and gazed at the floor in silence. The fire in the dark eyes had deepened. His heavy under lip was caught in the large, sharp teeth.
All at once a ringing laugh disturbed the silence. There was a mocking intonation in it which was unmistakable.
“General Davenant!” exclaimed the woman. “Well, who is General Davenant?”
Darke looked at the mocking speaker sidewise.
“Who is General Davenant?” he said. “Is it necessary that I enlighten you, madam? He is my bugbear—my death’s head! The sight of him poisons my life, and something gnaws at me, driving me nearly mad! To see that man chills me, like the hand of death!”
The woman looked at him and then began to laugh.
“You do unbend your noble strength, my lord!” she said, “to think so brainsickly of things!” throwing into the word, “brainsickly,” exaggerated stage-rant.
“One would say,” she continued, “that the brave Colonel Darke had the blues to-day! Take care how you meet Colonel Mohun in this mood! The result might be unfortunate.”