As he entered, Miss Georgia Conway, who was bending over a wounded soldier, raised her head and looked at him. Mohun’s eye met her own, and he bowed ceremoniously, taking no further notice of her.
At this exhibition of careless indifference I could see Miss Conway’s face flush. An expression of freezing hauteur came to the beautiful lips; and the disdainful glance indicated that her amour propre was deeply wounded.
She turned her back upon him abruptly—but as Mohun had already turned his, the movement failed in its object. The officer was looking at Stuart, who had grasped his hand. He winced as the general pressed it, and turned paler, but said nothing.
“Then you are not dead, Mohun!” exclaimed Stuart, laughing.
“Not in the least, general, I am happy to inform you,” replied Mohun.
“I am truly glad to hear it! What news?”
“Our party is all over. We followed them up until they recrossed the river—and I owed them this little piece of politeness for I recognized an old acquaintance in the commander of the squadron.”
“An acquaintance?”
“A certain Colonel Darke—a charming person, general.” And Mohun laughed.
“I recognized him yonder when we charged on the hill, and, at first, he followed his men when they broke. As I got close to him, however, in the woods, he recognized me in turn, and we crossed swords. He is brave—no man braver; and he did his utmost to put an end to me. I had somewhat similar views myself in reference to my friend, the colonel, but his men interposed and prevented my carrying them out. They were all around me, slashing away. I was nearly cut out of the saddle—I was carried away from my friend in the mêlée—and the unkindest cut of all was his parting compliment as he retreated through the river.”