I briefly narrated the particulars.
“It is genuine, no doubt; indeed it bears the stamp; but documents have been occasionally fabricated, which have misled people who did not take pains to test their authenticity. You appear to have had a good deal of adventure during your séjour with the Empecinado. They say that Don Juan is an off-handed gentleman at times—hangs a man first, and makes inquiries afterwards—ha?—Is it so?”
“‘As far as I can judge, my lord,” I replied, “such is his general practice. I found him a very excellent friend; but he’s the last man in Spain whom I should wish to make an enemy.”
I saw that his lordship was interested in the details of my recent adventures, which pictured strikingly the wild and ferocious style of war which the partidas carried on. Once or twice he was pleased to pay me a compliment; and he expressed unqualified satisfaction at Mark Antony’s bold and successful intervention to save the condemned voltigeur. Half an hour slipped away, coffee was brought in, and I was about to take my leave, when, turning round, as if a thought had struck him suddenly, Lord Wellington observed—
“I had a comrade of your name,—whether now dead or living I know not. We served together in the Low Countries, and both commanded regiments during the retreat. At Tuyl he particularly distinguished himself”—
“And on the occasion,” I added, “lost an arm.”
“The same;—is he related to you?”
“He is my father,” I replied.
“Then, Mr. O’Halloran, you are the son of a good and gallant soldier, he retired from the service I presume?”
“Twenty years ago, my Lord. But he is still in heart the same. Were it not for my mother’s influence, I am persuaded that, one-armed as he is, he would have been with your lordship before now.”