“At the hazard of being thought very hardy, sir,” said the Knight, as he
moved towards the door, “I would humbly solicit a favor.”
“A favor!” exclaimed Menou, staring in surprise.
“Yes, sir; it is that the services of a surgeon should be promptly
rendered--”
“I have given orders on that score already. My own medical man shall
attend to you.”
“I speak not of myself, sir. It is of a Volunteer of my corps, a
young man who now lies badly wounded; his case is not without hope, if
speedily looked to.”
“He must take his chance with others,” said the general, gruffly, while
he made a gesture of leave-taking; and Darcy, unable to prolong the
interview, retired.
“I am sorry, sir,” said the aide-de-camp, as he went along, “that my
orders are peremptory, and you must, if the state of your health permit,
at once leave this.”
“Is it thus your prisoners of war are treated, sir?” said Darcy,
scornfully, “or am I to hope--for hope I do--that the exception is
created especially for me?”
The officer was silent; and although the flush of shame was on his
cheek, the severe demands of duty overcame all personal feelings, and he
did not dare to answer.
The Knight was not one of those on whom misfortune can press, without
eliciting in return the force of resistance, and, if not forgetting,
at least combating, the indignities to which he had been subjected; he
resigned himself patiently to his destiny, and after a brief delay set
forth for his journey to Akrish, which he now learned was to be the
place of his confinement.
CHAPTER XXVIII. TIDINGS OF THE WOUNDED.
The interests of our story do not require us to dwell minutely on the
miserable system of intrigue by which the French authorities sought to
compromise the life and honor of a British officer. The Knight of Gwynne
was committed to the charge of a veteran officer of the Republic, who,
though dignified with the title of the Governor of Akrish, was, in
reality, invested with no higher functions than that of jailer over the
few unhappy prisoners whom evil destiny had thrown into French hands.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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