"You have been a soldier, then?" asked Eugene, his countenance at once expressing interest.
"I have, indeed; and but for the loss of my right hand by the sabre of an infernal Turk, I would be a soldier still."
"You have written the conquests of the republic upon your body, my friend," said Eugene, kindly. "But your mutilations are so many orders of valor; they are the ineffaceable laurels which victory places on a brave man's brow."
A slight flush overspread the sallow face of the ex-soldier, and his eyes sought the floor.
Eugene contemplated him for several moments with the sympathy—even the respect—which a military man feels for extraordinary bravery, as attested by such wounds as these.
"With what manner of weapon were you cut in the face?" said he. "Not with a sabre, for the scar is curved."
"It was not a sabre-cut, excellenza," replied the man, in a low, tremulous voice. "I was in the breech, fighting hand to hand with a Turk, whom I had just overthrown. While I was stooping over his prostrate body, he drew forth a yataghan and gashed my face as you see."
"I knew it was a dagger-thrust," replied Eugene. "Well, this scar shall be your best recommendation to me, for I, too, am a soldier."
"Excellenza, I thank you, but I have other and weighty recommendations from my employers. Moreover, here is my license as commissionnaire from the Signiory."
So saying, he would have handed the prince a document with a large seal appended to it, but Eugene waved it away.