“How dare you!” I cried. “You have opened my trunk! How dare you pry into my affairs? General Laguerre!” I protested. “I appeal to you, sir.”
“Major Reeder,” the General demanded, sharply, “what does this mean?”
“I was merely seeking evidence, General,” said Reeder. “You asked for his papers, and I went to look for them.”
“I gave you no orders to pry into this gentleman’s trunk,” said the General. “You have exceeded your authority. You have done very ill, sir. You have done very ill.”
While the General was reproving Reeder, his eyes, instead of looking at the officer, were fixed upon my sword. It was sufficiently magnificent to attract the attention of anyone, certainly of any soldier. The scabbard was of steel, wonderfully engraved, the hilt was of ivory, and the hilt-guard and belt fastenings were all of heavy gold. The General’s face was filled with appreciation.
“You have a remarkably handsome sword there,” he said, and hesitated, courteously, “—I beg your pardon, I have not heard your name?”
I was advancing to show the sword to him, when my eye fell upon the plate my grandfather had placed upon it, and which bore the inscription: “To Royal Macklin, on his appointment to the United States Military Academy, from his Grandfather, John M. Hamilton, Maj. Gen. U.S.A.”
“My name is Macklin, sir,” I said, “Royal Macklin.” I laid the sword lengthwise in his hands, and then pointed at the inscription. “You will find it there,” I said. The General bowed and bent his head over the inscription and then read the one beside it. This stated that the sword had been presented by the citizens of New York to Major-General John M. Hamilton in recognition of his distinguished services during the war with Mexico. The General glanced up at me in astonishment.
“General Hamilton!” he exclaimed. “General John Hamilton! Is that—was he your grandfather?”
I bowed my head, and the General stared at me as though I had contradicted him.