“Where were you taken?”
“On the march, at Lugo. Two days off from Coruña. Got too far ahead of my men. Wounded in the leg first; then, as I was defending myself, a musket-ball broke my right arm. So I had to give in.”
“You are lame still. Sit down. You a prisoner, too! I hardly know how to believe it.”
“Fortune of war, as our French friends would say. I’ve no right to complain. Had my share, though ’tis a shame to be cut off from more of it. Den, you’re looking very far from well.”
Denham did not heed the words.
“What of Roy?” he asked. “We have had no home-news for ages.”
“Roy is Ensign in my Regiment. Didn’t you know even that? Been with me through this Campaign. He and I were in the Reserve—under his eye”—in a lower voice. “You have heard——”
“No particulars. The fact of a battle at Coruña—and—— Tell me all you can.”
“You know that it was victory.”
“I know!”—in a stirred deep tone. “Not from the papers. French papers never admit defeat. But—under him—how could it be otherwise?”