"Officer and a gentleman!" said the Sergeant scornfully. "I never heard an Irish gentleman with a brogue like that. I believe you're one of the rowdy sort that call themselves patriots." "Sure, and I am," cried our prisoner. "But here, I don't want any wurruds with the like o' ye.--Help me up gently, boy, and let me see if I can't shtand." "Take hold of him on the other side," I said to the Sergeant, and he frowningly helped, so that we got our prisoner upon his feet. "Ah!" he said, with a groan. "I think I can manage it if ye lift me on a horse." Sandho was led up, and with a good deal of difficulty and a repetition of groans and allusions to the state of his lower members, the Captain was hoisted into the saddle, and after another draught of water he declared that he could "howld" out till we got him to the "docthor." "He doesn't look as if he could try to make a bolt of it," growled the Sergeant; "but you'd better throw the reins over your horse's head and lead him.--And look here, Mr Officer and Gentleman, I'm very good with the revolver, so don't try to spur off." Our prisoner waved his hand contemptuously and turned to me. "Sure, me wound and me fall put it all out of me head; but I had a man with me when I was hit, and we were cut off in the fight." "Yes," I said; "the poor fellow lies close here--dead." "Thin lade the horse round another way, boy. I don't want to look at the poor lad. Ah! I don't fale so faint now. To think of me bad luck, though. Shot down like this, and not in battle, but hunting a gang of wagon-thieves." "Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!" roared the Sergeant, slapping his thigh again and again as he laughed. "Come, I like that, Mr Moray.--Here, Mr Captain, let me introduce you to the gentleman who so cleverly carried off your stores last night." I was scarlet with indignation at being called a cattle-thief, and turned angrily away. "What!" said the prisoner; "him? Did--did he--did--But Moray--Moray? Sure, I thought I knew his face again. Here, I arrest ye as a thraitor and a deserter from the commando, boy;" and his hand went to the holster to draw his revolver, which had not been interfered with. "Drop that!" roared the Sergeant roughly, and he dragged the prisoner's hand from the holster, wrenching the revolver from his grasp, and nearly making him lose his balance and fall out of the saddle. "I've heard all about it. So you're the Irish scoundrel who summoned that poor lad, and when he refused to turn traitor and fight against his own country, you had his hands lashed behind his back and treated him like a dog. Why, you miserable renegado! if you weren't a wounded man I'd serve you the same. An officer and a gentleman! Why, you're a disgrace to your brave countrymen." "Whisht! whisht!" cried our prisoner contemptuously.