“A vote! a vote!” cried the soldiers.
“We’ll have no votes on this question!” thundered Colonel O’Neill.
“We will!” answered a stalwart corporal, stepping forward, pistol in hand. “Colonel O’Neill, your men say that Funk’s fate shall not be settled by one man.”
“Fire and furies, this is mutiny!” and the English sword leaped from its scabbard. “Corporal, who commands the Ninety-first—you or I?”
Corporal Quitman did not reply, but saluted his superior and stepped aside.
“We will vote on Funk’s life!” came a cry from the rebellious quarter, and the Indians began to demand a ballot, in their own language.
Colonel O’Neill was shaking with rage.
“Colonel, you had best listen to the men!” ventured Quitman, again.
“Who gave you authority to suggest to me?” roared the epauleted Briton, starting toward the corporal. “Sergeant Wilkinson, arrest the mutineer.”
But the sergeant did not stir.