“I started, gave a careful look at him, and recognised the General whose life I had doubtless saved from the pillaging Portuguese.
“‘I do, sir,’ I answered. ‘It was you yourself who sent me.’
“He turned with a little air of triumph to Margory. ‘I told you so, my dear,’ said he. ‘I got but a distant glimpse of him this forenoon, and thought I could not be mistaken.’ And Margory sobbed.
“‘My lad,’ he said, visibly restraining some emotion, ‘I could ask your drum-major to take the cords of Kildalton my brother’s drum and whip you out of a gallant corps. I sent you with a picket—a brave lad, as I thought any fellow should be who played Kildalton’s drum, and you came back a snivelling poltroon. Nay—nay!’ he cried, lifting up his hand and checking my attempt at an explanation. ‘You came out of that infernal lane whimpering like a child, after basely deserting your comrades of the picket, and made the mutilated condition of your drum the excuse for refusing my order to go back again, and I, like a fool, lost a limb in showing you how to do your duty.’
“‘Be off with you!’ he cried. ‘Another word, and I shall have you thrashed at the triangle.’
“He fairly thrust me from the room, and the last I heard was Margory’s sobbing.
“Next day I was packed off to the regimental depot, and some weeks later played a common drum at Salamanca.”
The sculptor rubbed the clay from his hands and took off his overall.
“That will do to-day, I think,” said he. “I am much better pleased than I was yesterday,” and he looked at his work with satisfaction.
“But the story, my dear Mr Urquhart. You positively must give me its conclusion!” I demanded.
“Why in the world should that not be its conclusion?” said he, drawing a wet sheet over the bust. “Would you insist on the hackneyed happy ending?”
“I am certain you did not take your quittance from the General in that way. You surely wrote to Margory or to him with an explanation?”
“Wrote!” cried he. “Do you think that so obvious an idea would not occur to me? But reflect again, I pray you, on the circumstances,—an obscure and degraded drummer—the daughter of one of the oldest families in the Highlands—the damning circumstantiality of her uncle’s evidence of my alleged poltroonery. My explanation was too incredible for pen and paper; and the poltroon himself, the man who had brought the disgrace upon me, was beyond my identification, even had I known where to look for him.”