CHAPTER XX.
More than a quarter of a hour had elapsed since Thaddeus, his arm in a sling, had glided into the tent without any of the listeners noticing his arrival, and, taking up his position in a remote corner, he had by occasional gestures expressed the interest that he took in his captain’s narrative; but at last, considering that this direct allusion to himself ought not to be permitted to pass without some acknowledgement on his part, he stammered out—
“You are too good, captain.”
A general burst of laughter followed this speech, and D’Auverney, turning towards him, exclaimed severely—
“What, Thaddeus, you here?—and your arm?”
On being addressed in so unaccustomed a tone, the features of the old soldier grew dark; he quivered, and threw back his head, as though to restrain the tears which seemed to struggle to his eyes.
“I never thought,” said he, in a low voice, “that you, captain, could have omitted to say thou when speaking to your old sergeant.”
“Pardon me, old friend,” answered the captain, quickly; “I hardly knew what I said. Thou wilt pardon me, wilt thou not?”
The tears sprang to the sergeant’s eyes in spite of his efforts to repress them.
“It is the third time,” remarked he—“but these are tears of joy.”