The enemy appeared,—approached. Waving his black flag, the colonel
attacked. Confusion ensued. Anxiously I awaited my signal; but my
signal came not. So far from falling, the hated Drowvey in spectacles
appeared to me to have muffled the colonel’s head in his outlawed banner,
and to be pitching into him with a parasol. The one in the lavender
bonnet also performed prodigies of valour with her fists on his back.
Seeing that all was for the moment lost, I fought my desperate way hand
to hand to the lane. Through taking the back road, I was so fortunate as
to meet nobody, and arrived there uninterrupted.
It seemed an age ere the colonel joined me. He had been to the jobbing
tailor’s to be sewn up in several places, and attributed our defeat to
the refusal of the detested Drowvey to fall. Finding her so obstinate,
he had said to her, ‘Die, recreant!’ but had found her no more open to
reason on that point than the other.
My blooming bride appeared, accompanied by the colonel’s bride, at the
dancing-school next day. What? Was her face averted from me? Hah?
Even so. With a look of scorn, she put into my hand a bit of paper, and
took another partner. On the paper was pencilled, ‘Heavens! Can I write
the word? Is my husband a cow?’
In the first bewilderment of my heated brain, I tried to think what
slanderer could have traced my family to the ignoble animal mentioned
above. Vain were my endeavours. At the end of that dance I whispered
the colonel to come into the cloak-room, and I showed him the note.
‘There is a syllable wanting,’ said he, with a gloomy brow.
‘Hah! What syllable?’ was my inquiry.
‘She asks, can she write the word? And no; you see she couldn’t,’ said
the colonel, pointing out the passage.
‘And the word was?’ said I.
‘Cow—cow—coward,’ hissed the pirate-colonel in my ear, and gave me back
the note.
Feeling that I must for ever tread the earth a branded boy,—person I
mean,—or that I must clear up my honour, I demanded to be tried by a
court-martial. The colonel admitted my right to be tried. Some
difficulty was found in composing the court, on account of the Emperor of
France’s aunt refusing to let him come out. He was to be the president.
Ere yet we had appointed a substitute, he made his escape over the
back-wall, and stood among us, a free monarch.
The court was held on the grass by the pond. I recognised, in a certain
admiral among my judges, my deadliest foe. A cocoa-nut had given rise to
language that I could not brook; but confiding in my innocence, and also
in the knowledge that the President of the United States (who sat next
him) owed me a knife, I braced myself for the ordeal.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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