General Davenant had taken his seat again, after his outburst. Once more his forehead was covered with his hand. For some moments he preserved a silence so profound, that nothing disturbed the night but the long breathing of the sleeping boy, and the measured tramp of the sentinel.
Then, all at once, the general raised his head. His expression was no longer fiery—it was unutterably sad.
“I have been reflecting, colonel,” he said gravely, “and, in these few minutes, have come to a somewhat singular determination.”
“What is that, general?”
“To tell you why my son can never marry the daughter of Judge Conway!”
XVIII. — TWO MEN AND A WOMAN.
General Davenant leaned his elbow on the desk, rested his forehead in his hand, and said in a deep, measured voice:—
“My story need not be a long one, colonel. Those who relate gay adventures and joyous experiences, indulge in endless details—memory is charming to them at such moments—they go back to the past, with a smile on the lips, recalling every little detail, every color of the bright picture.