“Not one half so much as I owe my recovery to your kindness,” said Forester. “Remember the wounded Volunteer you came to see on the march. The surgeon you employed never left me till the very day I quitted the camp; although I have had a struggle for life twice since then, I never could have lived through the first attack but for his aid.” “Is this all a dream,” said the Knight, as he leaned his head upon his band, “or are these events real? Then you were the officer whose exchange was managed, and of which I heard soon after the battle?” “Yes, I was exchanged under a cartel, and sailed for England the day after. And you, sir,--tell me of your fate.” “A slight wound and a somewhat tiresome imprisonment tells the whole story,--the latter a good deal enlivened by seeing that our troops were beating the French day after day, and the calculation that my durance could scarcely last till winter. I proved right, for last month came the capitulation, and here I am. But all these are topics for long evenings to chat over. Come with me; you can't refuse me any longer. Lady Eleanor has the right to speak _her_ gratitude to you; I see you won't listen to _mine_.” The Knight seized the young man's arm, and led him along as he spoke. “Nay,” said he, “there is another reason for it. If you suffered me to go off alone, nothing would make me believe that what I have now heard was not some strange trick of fancy. Here, with you beside me, feeling your arm within my own, and hearing your voice, it is all that I can do to believe it. Come, let me be convinced again. Where did you join us?” Forester now went over the whole story of his late adventures, omitting nothing from the moment he had joined the frigate at Portsmouth to the last evening, when as a prisoner, he had sent for Darcy to speak to him before he died. “I thought then,” said he, “I could scarcely have more than an hour or two to live; but when you came and stood beside me, I was not able to utter a word, I believe, at the time. It was rather a relief to me than otherwise that you did not know me.” “How strange is this all!” said the Knight, musing. “You have told me a most singular story; only one point remains yet unelucidated. How came you to volunteer,--you were in the Guards?” “Yes,” said Forester, blushing and faltering; “I had quitted the Guards, intending to leave the army, some short time previous; but--but--” “The thought of active service brought you back again. Out with it, and never be ashamed. I remember now having heard from an old friend of mine, Miss Daly, how you had left the service; and, to say truth, I was sorry for it,--sorry for _your_ sake, but sorrier because it always grieves me when men of gentle blood are not to be found where hard knocks are going. None ever distinguish themselves with more honor, and it is a pity that they should lose the occasion to show the world that birth and blood inherit higher privileges than stars and titles.”