[Here, by way of taking leave of Mr Bags, I may remark, that he narrowly escaped being hanged as a plunderer—failing which, he was sentenced by a court-martial to receive a number of lashes, which I refrain from specifying, because it would certainly make the hair of a modern humanitarian turn white with horror.]
“Come along, Major,” said Owen; “perhaps we may find more of these scoundrels in the course of our researches.”
The Major did not move; he was earnestly regarding the carcass of the pig, that steamed hissing above the embers.
“Queer idea that of the cinnamon fire,” said he. “I wonder how the meat tastes.”
Owen did not hear him, having walked forward.
“Have you got a knife about you, Frank?” said the Major. “Do you know I have a curious desire to ascertain the flavour. It may be a feature in cookery worth knowing.”
Owen had not a knife, nor had any of the men, but one of them suggested that the Major’s sword would answer the purpose.
“To be sure,” said the Major. “A good idea! I don’t see why swords shouldn’t be turned into carving-knives as well as into pruning-hooks.” So saying he drew it from the sheath, and, straddling across the fire, detached a crisp brown mouthful from the pig’s ribs, and putting a little salt on it, he conveyed it to his mouth.
“Excellent!” cried the Major. “I give you my word of honour, Owen, ’tis excellent! The cinnamon gives it a sort of a——”