“Does it? Well, it lifts no load from mine,” was the angry retort. He stood considering. Then with an impatient gesture he seemed to dismiss his thoughts. “I can do nothing,” he said, “nothing without being false to my duty and becoming as bad as you have been, O’Moy, and without any of the sentimental justification that existed in your case. I can’t allow the matter to be dropped, stifled. I have never been guilty of such a thing, and I refuse to become guilty of it now. I refuse--do you understand? O’Moy, you have acted; and you must take the consequences, and be damned to you.” “Faith, I’ve never asked you to help me, sir,” Sir Terence protested. “And you don’t intend to, I suppose?” “I do not.” “I am glad of that.” He was in one of those rages which were as terrible as they were rare with him. “I wouldn’t have you suppose that I make laws for the sake of rescuing people from the consequences of disobeying them. Here is this brother-in-law of yours, this fellow Butler, who has made enough mischief in the country to imperil our relations with our allies. And I am half pledged to condone his adventure at Tavora. There’s nothing for it, O’Moy. As your friend, I am infernally angry with you for placing yourself in this position; as your commanding officer I can only order you under arrest and convene a court-martial to deal with you.” Sir Terence bowed his head. He was a little surprised by all this heat. “I never expected anything else,” he said. “And it’s altogether at a loss I am to understand why your lordship should be vexing yourself in this manner.” “Because I’ve a friendship for you, O’Moy. Because I remember that you’ve been a loyal friend to me. And because I must forget all this and remember only that my duty is absolutely rigid and inflexible. If I condoned your offence, if I suppressed inquiry, I should be in duty and honour bound to offer my own resignation to his Majesty’s Government. And I have to think of other things besides my personal feelings, when at any moment now the French may be over the Agueda and into Portugal.” Sir Terence’s face flushed, and his glance brightened. “From my heart I thank you that you can even think of such things at such a time and after what I have done.” “Oh, as to what you have done--I understand that you are a fool, O’Moy. There’s no more to be said. You are to consider yourself under arrest. I must do it if you were my own brother, which, thank God, you’re not. Come, Grant. Good-bye, O’Moy.” And he held out his hand to him. Sir Terence hesitated, staring. “It’s the hand of your friend, Arthur Wellesley, I’m offering you, not the hand of your commanding officer,” said his lordship savagely. Sir Terence took it, and wrung it in silence, perhaps more deeply moved than he had yet been by anything that had happened to him that morning. There was a knock at the door, and Mullins opened it to admit the adjutant’s orderly, who came stiffly to attention.