“Could I not see my general once more? It may be for the last time.” “No, sir!” sternly replied Picton. “Lord Wellington believes you under arrest. It is as well he should suppose you obeyed his orders.” There was a tone of sarcasm in these words that prevented my reply; and muttering my gratitude for his well-timed and kindly interference in my behalf, I bowed deeply and turned away. “I say, sir!” said Picton, as he returned towards the church, “should anything befall,--that is, if, unfortunately, circumstances should make you in want and desirous of a staff appointment, remember that you are known to General Picton.” Downcast and depressed by the news of my poor general, I wended my way with slow and uncertain steps towards the rampart. A clear, cold, wintry sky and a sharp, bracing air made my wound, slight as it was, more painful, and I endeavored to reach the reserves, where I knew the hospital-staff had established, for the present, their quarters. I had not gone far when, from a marauding party, I learned that my man Mike was in search of me through the plain. A report of my death had reached him, and the poor fellow was half distracted. Longing anxiously to allay his fears on my account, which I well knew might lead him into any act of folly or insanity, I pressed forward; besides--shall I confess it?--amidst the manifold thoughts of sorrow and affliction which weighed me down, I could not divest myself of the feeling that so long as I wore my present absurd costume, I could be nothing but an object of laughter and ridicule to all who met me. I had not long to look for my worthy follower, for I soon beheld him cantering about the plain. A loud shout brought him beside me; and truly the poor fellow’s delight was great and sincere. With a thousand protestations of his satisfaction, and reiterated assurances of what he would not have done to the French prisoners if anything had happened me, we took our way together towards the camp. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE DESPATCH. I was preparing to visit the town on the following morning, when my attention was attracted by a dialogue which took place beneath my window. “I say, my good friend,” cried a mounted orderly to Mike, who was busily employed in brushing a jacket,--“I say, are you Captain O’Malley’s man?” “The least taste in life o’ that same,” replied he, with a half-jocular expression. “Well, then,” said the other, “take up these letters to your master. Be alive, my fine fellow, for they are despatches, and I must have a written return for them.” “Won’t ye get off and take a drop of somethin’ refreshing; the air is cowld this morning.” “I can’t stay, my good friend, but thank you all the same; so be alive, will you?”