There was a pause for some moments after he entered. At length Colonel Forrester inquired, in a voice strongly marked by surprise:—
"May I ask, sir, what rank you hold in the British army?"
"But that I have unfortunately suffered more from your mud than your fire," replied Gerald coolly, and with undisguised bitterness of manner, "the question would at once be answered by a reference my uniform."
"I understand you, sir; you would have me to infer you are what your dress, and your dress alone, denotes—a private soldier?"
Gerald made no answer.
"Your name, soldier?"
"My name!"
"Yes; your name. One possessed of the gallantry we witnessed this day cannot be altogether without a name."
The pale cheek of Gerald was slightly tinged. With all his grief, he still was man. The indirect praise lingered a moment at his heart, then passed off with the slight blush that as momentarily dyed his cheek.
"My name, sir, is a humble one, and little worthy to be classed with those who have this day written theirs in the page of honor with their heart's blood. I am called Gerald Grantham."