“I went at noon to the tall white house, and was shown into a room where sat Margory, white to the lips, beside the window, out of which she looked after a single hopeless glance at me. A middle-aged gentleman in mufti, with an empty sleeve, stood beside her, and closely scrutinised myself and my instrument as I entered. “‘This is the—the person you have referred to?’ he asked her, and she answered with a sob and an inclination of her head. “‘You have come—you are reputed to have come of a respectable family,’ he said then, addressing me; ‘you have studied at Edinburgh; you have, I am told, some pretensions to being something of a gentleman.’ “‘I hope they are no pretensions, sir,’ I answered warmly. ‘My people are as well known and as reputable as any in Argyll, though I should be foolishly beating a drum.’ “‘Very good,’ said he, in no way losing his composure. ‘I can depend on getting the truth from you, I suppose? You were with the 71st as drummer at Ciudad Rodrigo?’ “‘I was, sir,’ I replied. ‘Also at Badajos, at Talavera, Busaco—’ “‘An excellent record!’ he interrupted. ‘I might have learned all about it later had not my wound kept me two months in hospital after Ciudad. By the way, you remember being sent as drummer with a picket of men down a lane?’ “I started, gave a careful look at him, and recognised the General whose life I had doubtless saved from the pillaging Portuguese. “‘I do, sir,’ I answered. ‘It was you yourself who sent me.’ “He turned with a little air of triumph to Margory. ‘I told you so, my dear,’ said he. ‘I got but a distant glimpse of him this forenoon, and thought I could not be mistaken.’ And Margory sobbed. “‘My lad,’ he said, visibly restraining some emotion, ‘I could ask your drum-major to take the cords of Kildalton my brother’s drum and whip you out of a gallant corps. I sent you with a picket—a brave lad, as I thought any fellow should be who played Kildalton’s drum, and you came back a snivelling poltroon. Nay—nay!’ he cried, lifting up his hand and checking my attempt at an explanation. ‘You came out of that infernal lane whimpering like a child, after basely deserting your comrades of the picket, and made the mutilated condition of your drum the excuse for refusing my order to go back again, and I, like a fool, lost a limb in showing you how to do your duty.’ “‘But, General—’ I cried out. “‘Be off with you!’ he cried. ‘Another word, and I shall have you thrashed at the triangle.’ “He fairly thrust me from the room, and the last I heard was Margory’s sobbing. “Next day I was packed off to the regimental depot, and some weeks later played a common drum at Salamanca.” * * * * * The sculptor rubbed the clay from his hands and took off his overall. “That will do to-day, I think,” said he. “I am much better pleased than I was yesterday,” and he looked at his work with satisfaction.