“Our men are on quarter rations, and we officers fare but little better,” grumbled Mobray.
“Then what am I to do?” cried Janice, despairingly.
“Come, Fred,” said André, “can’t something be done?”
Mobray shook his head gloomily. “I did my best yesterday to get the wounded rebels given some soup and wine, or at least beef and biscuit that was n’t rotten or full of worms, but ’t was not to be done; there ’s too much profit in buying the worst and charging for the best.”
“Damn the commissary! say I,” growled André, “and let his fate be to starve ever after on the stuff he palms on us as fit to eat.”
“Amen,” remarked a voice outside, and Lord Clowes stepped into the room. “I’ll take hell and army rations, Captain André, rather than lose the pleasure of your society,” he added ironically.
“Small doubt I shall be found there,” retorted André, derisively; “but I fear me we shall be no better friends, Baron Clowes, than we are here. There is a special furnace for paroled prisoners!”
“Blast thy tongue, but that insult shall cost thee dear!” returned the commissary, white with rage. “To whom shall I send my friend, sir?”
“Hold, André,” broke in Mobray, “let me answer, not for you, but for the army.” He faced Clowes and went on. “When you have surrendered yourself into the hands of the rebels, and have been properly exchanged, sir, you may be able to find a British officer to carry a challenge on your behalf; until then no man of honour would lower himself by fighting you.”
“I make Sir Frederick’s answer mine, my Lord,” said André, “and I suggest, as a lady is present, that we put a finish to our war of words, which can come to nothing.”