The Aid-de-Camp, for in that capacity was he attached to the person of Colonel Forrester, immediately quitted the room, and presently afterwards returned ushering in the prisoner. Although Gerald was dressed, as we have said, in the uniform of the private grenadier, there was that about him which, in defiance of a person covered from head to foot with the slimy mud of the trenches, and a mouth black as ink with powder from the cartridges he had bitten, at once betrayed him for something more than he appeared. There was a pause for some moments after he entered. At length Colonel Forrester inquired, in a voice strongly marked by surprise:-- "May I ask, sir, what rank you hold in the British army?" "But that I have unfortunately suffered more from your mud than your fire," replied Gerald coolly, and with undisguised bitterness of manner, "the question would at once be answered by a reference my uniform." "I understand you, sir; you would have me to infer you are what your dress, and your dress alone, denotes--a private soldier?" Gerald made no answer. "Your name, soldier?" "My name!" "Yes; your name. One possessed of the gallantry we witnessed this day cannot be altogether without a name." The pale cheek of Gerald was slightly tinged. With all his grief, he still was man. The indirect praise lingered a moment at his heart, then passed off with the slight blush that as momentarily dyed his cheek. "My name, sir, is a humble one, and little worthy to be classed with those who have this day written theirs in the page of honor with their heart's blood. I am called Gerald Grantham." "Gerald Grantham!" repeated the Commandant, musingly, as though endeavoring to bring back the recollection of such a name. The prisoner looked at him stedfastly in return, yet without speaking. "Is there another of your name in the British squadron?" continued Colonel Forrester, fixing his eye full upon his prisoner. "There are many in the British squadron whose names are unknown to me," replied Gerald, evasively, and faintly coloring.