“It never was otherwise. Never—once!”
Denham rested his face on both hands.
“Tell me all you know. We are cut off from everything here.”
Jack’s information was but partial. Before starting for France, he had been kept by his wounds some time in the neighbourhood of Lugo; and thus a few details of that heroic death had filtered round to him. It was hard work for Jack to repeat them in a steady voice. Once Ivor raised his head; and the dumb white sorrow of his look all but overcame Jack’s fortitude. Then Ivor returned to his former position, and Jack went on resolutely.
“That’s about all,” he said at length. “As much as I’ve heard yet.... He was his own grand self to the last!... It was the death he would have chosen to die.... He always wished for it.... On the field—in the moment of victory! But the loss to us—to England!... The best—the noblest——”
Jack could say no more. Silence followed.
“Soult is a brave fellow. I heard that he was going to put up a memorial stone[1]—to him! The French know what he was.”
Silence again. Denham had not stirred.
“He saved the Army—and baulked Napoleon. None except we who were there could know the true state of things—the hopeless inefficiency of the Spaniards. If he had had treble the number of men, and sufficient supplies, England might have told a very different tale to-day. What could be done by mortal man, under such circumstances, he did.”
Renewed silence. Jack studied the other gravely.