"When I was in Madras in eighteen-two--no--eighteen-three," he said, "I was in the Nineteenth Dragoons under Maxwell--he was killed, you know--in that affair with the Mahrattas...."
"I know. I've read about the Battle of Assaye, and how General Wellesley had two horses shot under him...."
"That was it. Scindia, you know--that affair! They had some very good artillery for those days, and our men had to charge up to the guns. I was cut down in Maxwell's cavalry charge, and went near bleeding to death. He was a fine fellow that did it...."
"Never mind him! You were going to tell me about yourself."
"Why--I was given up for dead. It was a good job I escaped decent interment. But the surgeon gave me the benefit of the doubt, and stood me over for a day or two. Then, as I didn't decay properly...."
"Oh, General--don't be so horrible!" This from Miss Smith-Dickenson close at hand. But Gwen is too eager to hear, to care about delicacies of speech, and strikes in:--
"Do go on, General! Never mind Aunt Constance. She is so fussy. Go on--'didn't decay properly'...."
"Well--I was behindhand! Not up to my duties, considered as a corpse! The doctor stood me over another twenty-four hours, and I came to. I was very much run down, certainly, but I _did_ come to, or I shouldn't be here now to tell you about it, my dear. I should have been sorry."
A matter-of-fact gentleman "pointed out" that had General Rawnsley died of his wounds, he would not have been in a position to feel either joy or sorrow, or to be conscious that he was not dining at Ancester. The General fished up a wandering eyeglass to look at him, and said:--"Quite correct!" Miss Smith-Dickenson remarked upon the dangers attendant on over-literal interpretations. The Hon. Mr. Pellew perceived in this that Miss Dickenson had a sort of dry humour.
"But you _did_ come to, General, and you _are_ telling me about it," said Lady Gwen. "Now, how long was it before you rejoined your regiment?"
"H'm--well! I wasn't good for much two months later, or I should have come in for the fag-end of the campaign. All right in three months, I should say. But then--I was a young fellah!--in those days. How old's your man?"
"This gentleman who has been shot?" says Gwen, with some stiffness. "I have not the slightest idea." But Sir Coupland answered the question for her. "At a guess, General, twenty-five or twenty-six. He ought to do well if he gets through the next day or two. He may have a good constitution. I can't say yet. Yours must have been remarkable."