“No, no, I cannot let you go yet. I shall keep you, at any rate, a few days longer. And while this frost lasts you can do no hunting. How is the shoulder?”
“Better. In a fortnight or so I shall be able to dispense with the sling, but my ankle is the worst. The contusion was very severe. I fear that I shall feel the effects of it for a long time.”
“That is very likely, I think. I would any time rather have a clean flesh wound than a severe contusion. I have had experience of both. At Salamanca my shoulder was laid open with a sabre-stroke at the very moment my horse was shot under me; and my leg, which was terribly bruised in the fall, was much longer in getting better than my shoulder.”
“At Salamanca! You surely don’t mean the battle of Salamanca?”
“Yes, the battle of Salamanca.”
“But, God bless me, that is ages ago! At the beginning of the century—1810 or 1812, or something like that.”
“The battle of Salamanca was fought on the 21st of July, 1812,” said my host, with a matter-of-fact air.
“But—why—how?” I stammered, staring at him in supreme surprise. “That is sixty years since, and you don’t look much more than fifty now.”
“All the same I am nearly fourscore,” said Mr. Fortescue, smiling as if the compliment pleased him.
“Fourscore, and so hale and strong! I have known men half your age not half so vigorous and alert. Why, you may live to be a hundred.”