"It suggests," said John, after a moment's hesitation, "that the punishment meted out to—to me, was a light one."
"I see you are as evasive as ever," retorted Colonel Treves. He turned and smote the open letter twice with the back of his hand. "In this letter, General Whiston," he measured his words slowly, "tells me, by implication, that you are guilty of cowardice in the face of the enemy—you, a Treves!" Then in a moment the anger that had vivified him seemed to fade; he appeared to Manton to become suddenly old, bowed, and pitiful, the expression on his face was one of anguish. The dishonour that had befallen his name was no less than torture to him, but once again he recovered himself, and gripped the arms of his chair with both white-knuckled hands.
"You know the just punishment for cowardice in the face of the enemy?" He was leaning towards Manton now; his mouth twitched, but there was a blaze in the old grey eyes.
"I know it, sir," said John quietly.
The Colonel drew in his breath slowly and sat erect.
"Ah, you know. And, having escaped that punishment, and knowing yourself to be guilty, you skulk in hiding! You fail to seize the one chance that is open to you to redeem the past!"
"What is the chance?" inquired Manton, forgetting himself for a moment.
The Colonel stared at him in astonishment.
"The chance of re-enlistment, of course. Instead of doing that," he went on, "you write me a whining letter, saying you can't stand the trenches, you can't face it, your nerves—bah! nerves, my God, and you a Treves!" He hurled these words forth with a contempt and loathing that was like a blow in the face. But Manton noticed that he was breathing heavily. The emotional intensity of his feelings was wearing on him, and the younger man felt a sudden tenderness towards this old, stricken, bitterly disappointed father.
"Is it too late now, sir?" he asked quietly.