“Oh, Jacquelin!” The rest was only a sob. The blood flushed Jacquelin’s pale face, and he passed by her.
“By what authority do you commit this outrage?” he asked Leech.
“By authority enough for you. By what authority do you dare to interfere with an officer in the discharge of his duty, you limping, rebel dog? If you know what is good for you, you’ll take yourself off pretty quick.” Leech took in his squad with a wave of his hand, and encountering Jacquelin’s blazing eyes and a certain motion of his crutch, moved a little nearer to his men, laying his hand on his pistol as he did so.
Blair made a gesture to stop Jacquelin; but he took no heed of it. He moved on his crutches nearer to the Provost.
“I demand to know your authority, dog,” he said, ignoring both Leech’s threat and Blair’s imploring look.
“I’ll show you. Seize him and search him,” said Leech, falling behind his squad and adding an epithet not necessary to be repeated.
“I am not armed; if I were—” said Jacquelin. At Blair’s gesture he stopped.
“Well, what would you do?” Leech asked after waiting a moment for Jacquelin to proceed.” You hear what he says, Sergeant?” He addressed the bluff, red-haired Irishman who wore a sergeant’s chevrons.
“Sames to me he says nothin’ at all,” said the Sergeant, who was the same man that had had charge of the ambulance in which Jacquelin had been brought home the day he arrived, and who had been a little grumpy ever since he had been put under Leech’s command.