“Shamus O’Moore, once of the Inniskillens,” answered the newcomer, standing very erect and speaking in a harsh, high voice.
“Ah,” sneered Danvers, “an English dragoon.”
“No,” said the other with great promptness, “an Irish dragoon.”
“It is all the same,” spoke Danvers.
“Pardon me,” protested the other, still in the same tone, and never budging an inch in his ramrod like attitude. “There is no sameness about it at all. Faith, ye could never make an Englishman out of an Irishman in the world. They are like oil and water, and they won’t mix.”
“It’s the man they call Longsword,” whispered Walter Stanton to his chum, Philip Morgan.
“I know,” answered the latter. “I’ve seen him at Ethan Carlyle’s several times.”
“General Montgomery,” said the soldier-like O’Moore, “were an Irishman like meself and proud he were of it. He gave up his life for this struggling nation, sir, in the storming of Quebec; and it was no common life, I’ll have ye know. There was in him the makings of a general officer that would have astonished the world.”
“Oh, you fancy yourself a judge, I see,” said Danvers, icily.
“Man and boy, I’ve soldiered for thirty years,” said the other, “and I’ve had lots of time to pick up stray bits of knowledge by the wayside.”