"Oh, how you frightened me," exclaimed the ox-herd. "I am a deserter."
The sentinel ordered Boksa to wait there until the patrol came to lead him away. Soon a file-leader appeared with a common soldier and received Gregory's statement that he was a runaway from the Hungarian camp and wished to speak with the commander. He had chanced upon the encampment of a cavalry regiment, whose colonel was at the moment playing cards in his tent with some of his officers. Being told that a deserter was outside, waiting to speak with him, he ordered the man to be admitted.
The officers became interested at once in the newcomer, who appeared at the same time cowardly and haughty, angry and humble; who wore the look of a suppliant and gnashed his teeth with rage, kissed every one's hand, and swore by all the saints while he was doing it.
"Why did you desert?" asked the colonel.
"Because they had me flogged; me, whose family has been noble for seventy-seven generations. And then they took away my arms, which cannot lawfully be taken from a nobleman even for debt, and drove me out of the camp like a dog. All right! There are other people over the mountains, and Gregory Boksa can find a market for his services elsewhere."
"And in what capacity did you serve?" demanded the colonel.
"As ox-herd."
"As a non-combatant, then. Now I understand why you are so fierce."
"Oh, I can handle my man in an honest fight," answered Gregory, "but I'm a bit put out where loud shooting is going on."
The officers laughed at this naïve confession.