“A captain, sir, whose name I do not know, did say something.”
“What was it?”
“I forget the precise words, sir, but their purport was, that Colonel Mahon would certainly shoot me when I got back.”
“And you replied?”
“I don’t believe I made any reply at the time, sir.”
“But you thought, sir—what were your thoughts?”
“I thought it very like what I’d have done myself in a like case, although certain to be sorry for it afterward.”
Whether the emotion had been one for some time previous restrained, or that my last words had provoked it suddenly, I can not tell, but the lady here burst out into a fit of laughter, but which was as suddenly checked by some sharp observation of the colonel, whose stern features grew sterner and darker every moment.
“There we differ, sir,” said he, “for I should not.” At the same instant he pushed his plate away, to make room on the table for a small portfolio, opening which he prepared to write.
“You will bring this paper,” continued he, “to the ‘Prevot Marshal.’ To-morrow morning you shall be tried by a regimental court-martial, and as your sentence may probably be the galleys and hard labor—”