I replied that I could not say exactly how many men we had, but the number was somewhere between a thousand and a million, and at any rate sufficient for the purpose. He laughed gently as if he were willing to tolerate me, and continued to put questions in manner sly and most insidious. I returned answers vague or downright false, and I could see that the officer was becoming vexed at his want of success. Albert himself filled up my glass and urged me to drink again. “You know, Dick, you don’t get good wine often,” he said, “and this may be your last chance.” Had not I been a guest I would have created, right then and there, a second opportunity for giving Albert the worst beating of his life. I pretended to drink, though I merely sipped the fumes. The elderly officer changed his tactics a little. “Do you think your generals are well informed about us?” he asked. “Oh, yes,” I replied. “How?” “We learn from prisoners,” I said, “and then, perhaps, we ask sly questions from Englishmen who come to us under flags of truce.” “What do you mean?” he asked, his face--and I was glad to see it--reddening. “I mean,” said I, “that you have brought me into this tent with purpose to intoxicate me and get valuable information from me. It was a plot unworthy of gentlemen.” He rose to his feet, his eyes flashing with much anger. But the wine I had drunk made me very belligerent. I was ready to fight a thousand--come one, come all. Moreover, I leave it to all if I did not have just cause for wrath. I turned from the officer to Albert, against whom my indignation burned most. “I have just saved you from death, perhaps a most degrading death,” I said, “and I am loath to remind you of it, but I must, in order to tell your fellow officers I am sorry I did it.” I never saw a man turn redder, and he trembled all over. It was the scarlet of shame, too, and not of righteous anger. “Dick,” he said, “I beg your pardon. I let my zeal for our cause go too far. I--I----” I think he would have broken down, but just then the elderly officer interfered. “Be silent, Lieutenant Van Auken,” he said. “It is not your fault, nor that of any other present except myself. You speak truth, Mr. Shelby, when you say it was unworthy of us. So it was. I am glad it failed, and I apologize for the effort to make it a success. Mr. Shelby, I am glad to know you.” He held out his hand with such frank manliness and evident good will that I grasped it and shook it heartily. What more he might have said or done I do not know, for just then we were interrupted by the sound of a great though distant shouting. CHAPTER VIII. A NIGHT UNDER FIRE.