But the rays of the lantern, falling that instant upon his face, answered my question for me.
"Cornelius!" I cried.
"What, sir? Why—'tis Mr. Russell!"
"Ay, and here is Tom Faringfield," said I.
"Well, bless my soul!" exclaimed the pedagogue, grasping the hand that Tom held to him out of the darkness.
"Mr. Cornelius, since that is your name," put in De Lancey, to whom time was precious. "Will you please tell us who commands yonder, where we got the reception our folly deserved, awhile ago?"
"Certainly, sir," said Cornelius. "'Tis no harm, I suppose—no violation of duty or custom?"
"Not in the least," said I.
"Why then, sir," says he, "since yesterday, when we relieved the infantry there—we are dragoons, sir, though dismounted for this particular service—a new independent troop, sir—Winwood's Horse—"
"Winwood's!" cried I.