"In your sleigh, Constable," he answered quietly. "Is there a non-commissioned officer with us? You, Sergeant Boyle, put that man under arrest."
"Conshider yerself," said Boyle in his delicious brogue, touching my shoulder.
"And when we reach the fort," my enemy continued, "you'll put that man in the guard-room."
But Boyle was nettled, for that, at such a time, was an act of spite. "Constable la Mancha," he shouted, so that all might hear, "for charging an officer wit' cowardice in the field, ye'll be conshiderin' yershelf under close arrest, d'ye hear me?"
"You witness," said I, "to my charge of cowardice."
"Silence, prisoner!"
I handed my reins to Red Saunders as off man.
"Well, Sergeant," Sarde became affable, "might have been worse weather, eh?"
The sergeant turned his back on an officer under charge of cowardice, and a trooper at the tail end of the sleigh asked his neighbor, "When will Sarde be court-martialed?" From that moment the outfit treated Sarde as a leper.
Meanwhile I sulked, humped on the driving seat, though the blue sky and the fair snow-fields called on my soul to rest, to be at peace, and shamed by distracted spirit with their quiet. There was silence in that heaven for the space of half an hour, teaching me not to care, never to hate. I think I went off to sleep.