The consciousness of having performed the feat did not render me less sensible of the kindness of its being recorded. I, a homeless, nameless, adventurer, with no one to sing my praise—save those who had witnessed my deeds—could not feel otherwise than grateful.
He saw, and sang them; in that verse in which he was a master—the poetry of the pencil.
I was half mad, when I heard that he had been murdered.
In twenty minutes after, I stood in the presence of the commander-in-chief.
Chapter Twenty Six.
The Great Strategist.
“What is it, captain? One of my aides-de-camp tells me you have asked for an interview. Be brief with your business; I’m full of affairs just now.” I was not a favourite at head-quarters. I had no flattery for the conceited septuagenarian who at this crisis commanded the American army.
Still his consent was necessary for my purpose. Without it I could do nought to avenge the death of my friend. That granted, I had conceived a scheme.