CHAPTER XXI. SANCTUARY
"I will withdraw, sir," said Terence.
But Wellington detained him. "Since Dom Miguel asked for you, you hadbetter remain, perhaps."
"It is the adjutant-general Dom Miguel desires to see, and I amadjutant-general no longer."
"Still, the matter may concern you. I have a notion that it may beconcerned with the death of Count Samoval, since I have acquainted theCouncil of Regency with the treason practised by the Count. You hadbetter remain."
Gloomy and downcast, Sir Terence remained as he was bidden.
The sleek and supple Secretary of State was ushered in. He came forwardquickly, clicked his heels together and bowed to the three men present.
"Sirs, your obedient servant," he announced himself, with a courtlinessalmost out of fashion, speaking in his extraordinarily fluent English.His sallow countenance was extremely grave. He seemed even a little illat ease.
"I am fortunate to find you here, my lord. The matter upon which Iseek your adjutant-general is of considerable gravity--so much that ofhimself he might be unable to resolve it. I feared you might alreadyhave departed for the north."
"Since you suggest that my presence may be of service to you, I am happythat circumstances should have delayed my departure," was his lordship'scourteous answer. "A chair, Dom Miguel."
Dom Miguel Forjas accepted the proffered chair, whilst Wellington seatedhimself at Sir Terence's desk. Sir Terence himself remained standingwith his shoulders to the overmantel, whence he faced them both as wellas Grant, who, according to his self-effacing habit, remained in thebackground by the window.
"I have sought you," began Dom Miguel, stroking his square chin, "on amatter concerned with the late Count Samoval, immediately upon hearingthat the court-martial pronounced the acquittal of Captain Tremayne."
His lordship frowned, and his eagle glance fastened upon the Secretary'sface.
"I trust, sir, you have not come to question the finding of thecourt-martial."
"Oh, on the contrary--on the contrary!" Dom Miguel was emphatic. "Irepresent not only the Council, but the Samoval family as well. Bothrealise that it is perhaps fortunate for all concerned that in arrestingCaptain Tremayne the military authorities arrested the wrong man, andboth have reason to dread the arrest of the right one."
He paused, and the frown deepened between Wellington's brows.
"I am afraid," he said slowly, "that I do not quite perceive theirconcern in this matter."
"But is it not clear?" cried Dom Miguel.
"If it were I should perceive it," said his lordship dryly.
"Ah, but let me explain, then. A further investigation of the manner inwhich Count Samoval met his death can hardly fail to bring to lightthe deplorable practices in which he was engaged; for no doubt ColonelGrant, here, would consider it his duty in the interests of justice toplace before the court the documents found upon the Count's dead body.If I may permit myself an observation," he continued, looking round atColonel Grant, "it is that I do not quite understand how this has notalready happened."
There was a pause in which Grant looked at Wellington as if fordirection. But his lordship himself assumed the burden of the answer.
"It was not considered expedient in the public interest to do so atpresent," he said. "And the circumstances did not place us under thenecessity of divulging the matter."
"There, my lord, if you will allow me to say so, you acted with adelicacy and wisdom which the circumstances may not again permit. Indeedany further investigation must almost inevitably bring these matters tolight, and the effect of such revelation would be deplorable."
"Deplorable to whom?" asked his lordship.
"To the Count's family and to the Council of Regency."
"I can sympathise with the Count's family, but not with the Council."
"Surely, my lord, the Council as a body deserves your sympathy in thatit is in danger of being utterly discredited by the treason of one ortwo of its members."
Wellington manifested impatience. "The Council has been warned time andagain. I am weary of warning, and even of threatening, the Council withthe consequences of resisting my policy. I think that exposure is notonly what it deserves, but the surest means of providing a healthiergovernment in the future. I am weary of picking my way through theweb of intrigue with which the Council entangles my movements andmy dispositions. Public sympathy has enabled it to hamper me in thisfashion. That sympathy will be lost to it by the disclosures which youfear."
"My lord, I must confess that there is much reason in what you say." Hewas smoothly conciliatory. "I understand your exasperation. But may Ibe permitted to assure you that it is not the Council as a body that haswithstood you, but certain self-seeking members, one or two friends ofPrincipal Souza, in whose interests the unfortunate and misguided CountSamoval was acting. Your lordship will perceive that the moment isnot one in which to stir up public indignation against the PortugueseGovernment. Once the passions of the mob are inflamed, who can say towhat lengths they may not go, who can say what disastrous consequencesmay not follow? It is desirable to apply the cautery, but not to burn upthe whole body."
Lord Wellington considered a moment, fingering an ivory paper-knife. Hewas partly convinced.
"When I last suggested the cautery, to use your own very apt figure, theCouncil did not keep faith with me."
"My lord!"
"It did not, sir. It removed Antonio de Souza, but it did not take thetrouble to go further and remove his friends at the same time. Theyremained to carry on his subversive treacherous intrigues. Whatguarantees have I that the Council will behave better on this occasion?"
"You have our solemn assurances, my lord, that all those memberssuspected of complicity in this business or of attachment to the Souzafaction, shall be compelled to resign, and you may depend upon thereconstituted Council loyally to support your measures."
"You give me assurances, sir, and I ask for guarantees."
"Your lordship is in possession of the documents found upon CountSamoval. The Council knows this, and this knowledge will compel it toguard against further intrigues on the part of any of its members whichmight naturally exasperate you into publishing those documents. Is notthat some guarantee?"
His lordship considered, and nodded slowly. "I admit that it is. YetI do not see how this publicity is to be avoided in the course of thefurther investigations into the manner in which Count Samoval came byhis death."
"My lord, that is the pivot of the whole matter. All furtherinvestigation must be suspended."
Sir Terence trembled, and his eyes turned in eager anxiety upon theinscrutable, stern face of Lord Wellington.
"Must!" cried his lordship sharply.
"What else, my lord, in all our interests?" exclaimed the Secretary, andhe rose in his agitation.
"And what of British justice, sir?" demanded his lordship in aforbidding tone.
"British justice has reason to consider itself satisfied. Britishjustice may assume that Count Samoval met his death in the pursuitof his treachery. He was a spy caught in the act, and there and thendestroyed--a very proper fate. Had he been taken, British justice wouldhave demanded no less. It has been anticipated. Cannot British justice,for the sake of British interests as well as Portuguese interests, becontent to leave the matter there?"
"An argument of expediency, eh?" said Wellington. "Why not, my lord!Does not expediency govern politicians?"
"I am not a politician."
"But a wise soldier, my lord, does not lose sight of the politicalconsequences of his acts." And he sat down again.
"Your Excellency may be right," said his lordship. "Let us be quiteclear, then. You suggest, speaking in the name of the Council ofRegency, that I should suppress all further investigations into themanner in which Count Samoval met his death, so as to save his familythe shame and the Council of Regency the discredit which must overtakeone and the other if the facts are disclosed--as disclosed they would bethat Samoval was a tra
itor and a spy in the pay of the French. Thatis what you ask me to do. In return your Council undertakes that thereshall be no further opposition to my plans for the military defence ofPortugal, and that all my measures however harsh and however heavilythey may weigh upon the landowners, shall be punctually and faithfullycarried out. That is your Excellency's proposal, is it not?"
"Not so much my proposal, my lord, as my most earnest intercession. Wedesire to spare the innocent the consequences of the sins of a man whois dead, and well dead." He turned to O'Moy, standing there tense andanxious. It was not for Dom Miguel to know that it was the adjutant'sfate that was being decided. "Sir Terence," he cried, "you have beenhere for a year, and all matters connected with the Council havebeen treated through you. You cannot fail to see the wisdom of myrecommendation."
His lordship's eyes flashed round upon O'Moy. "Ah yes!" he said. "Whatis your feeling in this matter, 'O'Moy?" he inquired, his tone andmanner void of all expression.
Sir Terence faltered; then stiffened. "I--The matter is one that onlyyour lordship can decide. I have no wish to influence your decision."
"I see. Ha! And you, Grant? No doubt you agree with Dom Miguel?"
"Most emphatically--upon every count, sir," replied the intelligenceofficer without hesitation. "I think Dom Miguel offers an excellentbargain. And, as he says, we hold a guarantee of its fulfilment."
"The bargain might be improved," said Wellington slowly.
"If your lordship will tell me how, the Council, I am sure, will beready to do all that lies in its power to satisfy you."
Wellington shifted his chair round a little, and crossed his legs. Hebrought his finger-tips together, and over the top of them his eyesconsidered the Secretary of State.
"Your Excellency has spoken of expediency--political expediency.Sometimes political expediency can overreach itself and perpetrate themost grave injustices. Individuals at times are unnecessarily calledupon to suffer in the interests of a cause. Your Excellency willremember a certain affair at Tavora some two months ago--the invasion ofa convent by a British officer with rather disastrous consequences andthe loss of some lives."
"I remember it perfectly, my lord. I had the honour of entertaining SirTerence upon that subject on the occasion of my last visit here."
"Quite so," said his lordship. "And on the grounds of politicalexpediency you made a bargain then with Sir Terence, I understand, abargain which entailed the perpetration of an injustice."
"I am not aware of it, my lord."
"Then let me refresh your Excellency's memory upon the facts. To appeasethe Council of Regency, or rather to enable me to have my way withthe Council and remove the Principal Souza, you stipulated for theassurance--so that you might lay it before your Council--that theoffending officer should be shot when taken."
"I could not help myself in the matter, and--"
"A moment, sir. That is not the way of British justice, and Sir Terencewas wrong to have permitted himself to consent; though I profoundlyappreciate the loyalty to me, the earnest desire to assist me, which ledhim into an act the cost of which to himself your Excellency can hardlyappreciate. But the wrong lay in that by virtue of this bargain aBritish officer was prejudged. He was to be made a scapegoat. He wasto be sent to his death when taken, as a peace-offering to the people,demanded by the Council of Regency.
"Since all this happened I have had the facts of the case placed beforeme. I will go so far as to tell you, sir, that the officer in questionhas been in my hands for the past hour, that I have closely questionedhim, and that I am satisfied that whilst he has been guilty of conductwhich might compel me to deprive him of his Majesty's commission anddismiss him from the army, yet that conduct is not such as to meritdeath. He has chiefly sinned in folly and want of judgment. I reproveit in the sternest terms, and I deplore the consequences it had. But forthose consequences the nuns of Tavora are almost as much to blame as heis himself. His invasion of their convent was a pure error, committedin the belief that it was a monastery and as a result of the porter'sfoolish conduct.
"Now, Sir Terence's word, given in response to your absolute demands,has committed us to an unjust course, which I have no intention offollowing. I will stipulate, sir, that your Council, in addition to thematters undertaken, shall relieve us of all obligation in this matter,leaving it to our discretion to punish Mr. Butler in such manner as wemay consider condign. In return, your Excellency, I will undertake thatthere shall be no further investigation into the manner in which CountSamoval came by his death, and consequently, no disclosures of theshameful trade in which he was engaged. If your Excellency will giveyourself the trouble of taking the sense of your Council upon this, wemay then reach a settlement."
The grave anxiety of Dom Miguel's countenance was instantly dispelled.In his relief he permitted himself a smile.
"My lord, there is not the need to take the sense of the Council.The Council has given me carte blanche to obtain your consent to asuppression of the Samoval affair. And without hesitation I acceptthe further condition that you make. Sir Terence may consider himselfrelieved of his parole in the matter of Lieutenant Butler."
"Then we may look upon the matter as concluded."
"As happily concluded, my lord." Dom Miguel rose to make his valedictoryoration. "It remains for me only to thank your lordship in the nameof the Council for the courtesy and consideration with which you havereceived my proposal and granted our petition. Acquainted as I am withthe crystalline course of British justice, knowing as I do how it seeksever to act in the full light of day, I am profoundly sensible of thecost to your lordship of the concession you make to the feelings of theSamoval family and the Portuguese Government, and I can assure you thatthey will be accordingly grateful."
"That is very gracefully said, Dom Miguel," replied his lordship, risingalso.
The Secretary placed a hand upon his heart, bowing. "It is but the poorexpression of what I think and feel." And so he took his leave of them,escorted by Colonel Grant, who discreetly volunteered for the office.
Left alone with Wellington, Sir Terence heaved a great sigh of supremerelief.
"In my wife's name, sir, I should like to thank you. But she shall thankyou herself for what you have done for me."
"What I have done for you, O'Moy?" Wellington's slight figure stiffenedperceptibly, his face and glance were cold and haughty. "You mistake,I think, or else you did not hear. What I have done, I have done solelyupon grounds of political expediency. I had no choice in the matter, andit was not to favour you, or out of disregard for my duty, as you seemto imagine, that I acted as I did."
O'Moy bowed his head, crushed under that rebuff. He clasped andunclasped his hands a moment in his desperate anguish.
"I understand," he muttered in a broken voice, "I--I beg your pardon,sir."
And then Wellington's slender, firm fingers took him by the arm.
"But I am glad, O'Moy, that I had no choice," he added more gently. "Asa man, I suppose I may be glad that my duty as Commander-in-Chief placedme under the necessity of acting as I have done."
Sir Terence clutched the hand in both his own and wrung it fiercely,obeying an overmastering impulse.
"Thank you," he cried. "Thank you for that!"
"Tush!" said Wellington, and then abruptly: "What are you going to do,O'Moy?" he asked.
"Do?" said O'Moy, and his blue eyes looked pleadingly down into thesternly handsome face of his chief, "I am in your hands, sir."
"Your resignation is, and there it must remain, O'Moy. You understand?"
"Of course, sir. Naturally you could not after this--" He shrugged andbroke off. "But must I go home?" he pleaded.
"What else? And, by God, sir, you should be thankful, I think."
"Very well," was the dull answer, and then he flared out. "Faith, it'syour own fault for giving me a job of this kind. You knew me. You knowthat I am just a blunt, simple soldier--that my place is at the head ofa regiment, not at the head of an administration. You should have
knownthat by putting me out of my proper element I was bound to get intotrouble sooner or later."
"Perhaps I do," said Wellington. "But what am I to do with you now?" Heshrugged, and strode towards the window. "You had better go home, O'Moy.Your health has suffered out here, and you are not equal to the heat ofsummer that is now increasing. That is the reason of this resignation.You understand?"
"I shall be shamed for ever," said O'Moy. "To go home when the army isabout to take the field!"
But Wellington did not hear him, or did not seem to hear him. He hadreached the window and his eye was caught by something that he saw inthe courtyard.
"What the devil's this now?" he rapped out. "That is one of Sir RobertCraufurd's aides."
He turned and went quickly to the door. He opened it as rapid stepsapproached along the passage, accompanied by the jingle of spurs andthe clatter of sabretache and trailing sabre. Colonel Grant appeared,followed by a young officer of Light Dragoons who was powdered fromhead to foot with dust. The youth--he was little more--lurched forwardwearily, yet at sight of Wellington he braced himself to attention andsaluted.
"You appear to have ridden hard, sir," the Commander greeted him.
"From Almeida in forty-seven hours, my lord," was the answer. "Withthese from Sir Robert." And he proffered a sealed letter.
"What is your name?" Wellington inquired, as he took the package.
"Hamilton, my lord," was the answer; "Hamilton of the Sixteenth,aide-de-camp to Sir Robert Craufurd."
Wellington nodded. "That was great horsemanship, Mr. Hamilton," hecommended him; and a faint tinge in the lad's haggard cheeks respondedto that rare praise.
"The urgency was great, my lord," replied Mr. Hamilton.
"The French columns are in movement. Ney and Junot advanced to theinvestment of Ciudad Rodrigo on the first of the month."
"Already!" exclaimed Wellington, and his countenance set.
"The commander, General Herrasti, has sent an urgent appeal to SirRobert for assistance."
"And Sir Robert?" The question came on a sharp note of apprehension,for his lordship was fully aware that valour was the better part of SirRobert Craufurd's discretion.
"Sir Robert asks for orders in this dispatch, and refuses to stir fromAlmeida without instructions from your lordship."
"Ah!!" It was a sigh of relief. He broke the seal and spread thedispatch. He read swiftly. "Very well," was all he said, when he hadreached the end of Sir Robert's letter. "I shall reply to this in personand at, once. You will be in need of rest, Mr. Hamilton. You had besttake a day to recuperate, then follow me to Almeida. Sir Terence nodoubt will see to your immediate needs."
"With pleasure, Mr. Hamilton," replied Sir Terence mechanically--forhis own concerns weighed upon him at this moment more heavily than theFrench advance. He pulled the bell-rope, and into the fatherly handsof Mullins, who came in response to the summons, the young officer wasdelivered.
Lord Wellington took up his hat and riding-crop from Sir Terence's desk."I shall leave for the frontier at once," he announced. "Sir Robert willneed the encouragement of my presence to keep him within the prudentbounds I have imposed. And I do not know how long Ciudad Rodrigo may beable to hold out. At any moment we may have the French upon theAgueda, and the invasion may begin. As for you, O'Moy, this has changedeverything. The French and the needs of the case have decided. For thepresent no change is possible in the administration here in Lisbon. Youhold the threads of your office and the moment is not one in which toappoint another adjutant to take them over. Such a thing might be fatalto the success of the British arms. You must withdraw this resignation."And he proffered the document.
Sir Terence recoiled. He went deathly white.
"I cannot," he stammered. "After what has happened, I--"
Lord Wellington's face became set and stern. His eyes blazed upon theadjutant.
"O'Moy," he said, and the concentrated anger of his voice wasterrifying, "if you suggest that any considerations but those of thiscampaign have the least weight with me in what I now do, you insultme. I yield to no man in my sense of duty, and I allow no privateconsiderations to override it. You are saved from going home in disgraceby the urgency of the circumstances, as I have told you. By that and bynothing else. Be thankful, then; and in loyally remaining at your postefface what is past. You know what is doing at Torres Vedras. The workshave been under your direction from the commencement. See that they arevigorously pushed forward and that the lines are ready to receive thearmy in a month's time from now if necessary. I depend upon you--thearmy and England's honour depend upon you. I bow to the inevitable andso shall you." Then his sternness relaxed. "So much as your commandingofficer. Now as your friend," and he held out his hand, "I congratulateyou upon your luck. After this morning's manifestations of it, it shouldpass into a proverb. Goodbye, O'Moy. I trust you, remember."
"And I shall not fail you," gulped O'Moy, who, strong man that he was,found himself almost on the verge of tears. He clutched the extendedhand.
"I shall fix my headquarters for the present at Celorico. Communicatewith me there. And now one other matter: the Council of Regency willno doubt pester you with representations that I should--if time stillremains--advance to the relief of Ciudad Rodrigo. Understand, that isno part of my plan of campaign. I do not stir across the frontier ofPortugal. Here let the French come and find me, and I shall be ready toreceive them. Let the Portuguese Government have no illusions on thatpoint, and stimulate the Council into doing all possible to carry outthe destruction of mills and the laying waste of the country in thevalley of the Mondego and wherever else I have required.
"Oh, and by the way, you will find your brother-in-law, Mr. Butler, inthe guard-room yonder, awaiting my orders. Provide him with a uniformand bid him rejoin his regiment at once. Recommend him to be moreprudent in future if he wishes me to forget his escapade at Tavora. Andin future, O'Moy, trust your wife. Again, good-bye. Come, Grant!--I haveinstructions for you too. But you must take them as we ride."
And thus Sir Terence O'Moy found sanctuary at the altar of his country'sneed. They left him incredulously to marvel at the luck which had soenlisted circumstances to save him where all had seemed so surely lostan hour ago.
He sent a servant to fetch Mr. Butler, the prime cause of all thispother--for all of it can be traced to Mr. Butler's invasion of theTavora nunnery--and with him went to bear the incredible tidings oftheir joint absolution to the three who waited so anxiously in thedining-room.
POSTSCRIPTUM
The particular story which I have set myself to relate, of how SirTerence O'Moy was taken in the snare of his own jealousy, may veryproperly be concluded here. But the greater story in which it isenshrined and with which it is interwoven, the story of that other snarein which my Lord Viscount Wellington took the French, goes on. Thisstory is the history of the war in the Peninsula. There you may pursueit to its very end and realise the iron will and inflexibility ofpurpose which caused men ultimately to bestow upon him who guided thatcampaign the singularly felicitous and fitting sobriquet of the IronDuke.
Ciudad Rodrigo's Spanish garrison capitulated on the 10th of July ofthat year 1810, and a wave of indignation such as must have overwhelmedany but a man of almost superhuman mettle swept up against LordWellington for having stood inactive within the frontiers of Portugaland never stirred a hand to aid the Spaniards. It was not only fromSpain that bitter invective was hurled upon him; British journalismpoured scorn and rage upon his incompetence, French journalism held hispusillanimity up to the ridicule of the world. His own officers tookshame in their general, and expressed it. Parliament demanded to knowhow long British honour was to be imperilled by such a man. And finallythe Emperor's great marshal, Massena, gathering his hosts to overwhelmthe kingdom of Portugal, availed himself of all this to appeal to thePortuguese nation in terms which the facts would seem to corroborate.
He issued his proclamation denouncing the British for the disturbersand mischief-makers of Europe, warni
ng the Portuguese that they werethe cat's-paw of a perfidious nation that was concerned solely withthe serving of its own interests and the gratification of its predatoryambitions, and finally summoning them to receive the French as theirtrue friends and saviours.
The nation stirred uneasily. So far no good had come to them of theiralliance with the British. Indeed Wellington's policy of devastation hadseemed to those upon whom it fell more horrible than any French invasioncould have been.
But Wellington held the reins, and his grip never relaxed or slackened.And here let it be recorded that he was nobly and stoutly served inLisbon by Sir Terence O'Moy. Pressure upon the Council resulted in themeasures demanded being carried out. But much time had been lost throughthe intrigues of the Souza faction, with the result that those measures,although prosecuted now more vigorously, never reached the full extentwhich Wellington had desired. Treachery, too, stepped in to shorten thetime still further. Almeida, garrisoned by Portuguese and commanded byColonel Cox and a British staff, should have held a month. But no soonerhad the French appeared before it, on the 26th August, than a powdermagazine traitorously fired exploded and breached the wall, renderingthe place untenable.
To Wellington this was perhaps the most vexatious of all things in thatvexatious time. He had hoped to detain Massena before Almeida until therains should have set in, when the French would have found themselvesstruggling through a sodden, water-logged country, through bridgelessfloods and a land bereft of all that could sustain the troops. Still,what could be done Wellington did, and did it nobly. Fighting arearguard action, he fell back upon the grim and naked ridges of Busaco,where at the end of September he delivered battle and a murderousdetaining wound upon the advancing hosts of France. That done, hecontinued the retreat through Coimbra. And now as he went he saw to itthat the devastation was completed along the line of march. What cornand provisions could not be carried off were burnt or buried, andthe people forced to quit their dwellings and march with the army--apathetic, southward exodus of men and women, old and young, flocks ofsheep, and herds of cattle, creaking bullock-carts laden with provenderand household goods, leaving behind them a country bare as the Sahara,where hunger before long should grip the French army too far committednow to pause. In advancing and overtaking must lie Massena's hope.Eventually in Lisbon he must bring the British to bay, and, breakingthem, open out at last his way into a land of plenty.
Thus thought Massena, knowing nothing of the lines of Torres Vedras; andthus, too, thought the British Government at home, itself declaring thatWellington was ruining the country to no purpose, since in the end theBritish must be driven out with terrible loss and infamy that must maketheir name an opprobrium in the world.
But Wellington went his relentless way, and at the end of the firstweek of October brought his army and the multitude of refugees safelywithin the amazing lines. The French, pressing hard upon their heels andconfident that the end was near, were brought up sharply before thosestupendous, unsuspected, impregnable fortifications.
After spending best part of a month in vain reconnoitering, Massena tookup his quarters at Santarem, and thence the country was scoured forwhat scraps of victuals had been left to relieve the dire straits of thefamished host of France. How the great marshal contrived to hold out solong in Santarem against the onslaught of famine and concomitant diseaseremains something of a mystery. An appeal to the Emperor for succoureventually brought Drouet with provisions, but these were no more thanwould keep his men alive on a retreat into Spain, and that retreathe commenced early in the following March, by when no less than tenthousand of his army had fallen sick.
Instantly Wellington was up and after him. The French retreat became aflight. They threw away baggage and ammunition that they might travelthe lighter. Thus they fled towards Spain, harassed by the Britishcavalry and scarcely less by the resentful peasantry of Portugal, theirline of march defined by an unbroken trail of carcasses, until thetattered remnants of that once splendid army found shelter across theCoira. Beyond this Wellington could not continue the pursuit for lackof means to cross the swollen river and also because provisions wererunning short.
But there for the moment he might rest content, his immediate objectachieved and his stern strategy supremely vindicated.
On the heights above the yellow, turgid flood rode Wellingtonwith a glittering staff that included O'Moy and Murray, thequartermaster-general. Through his telescope he surveyed with silentsatisfaction the straggling columns of the French that were beingabsorbed by the evening mists from the sodden ground.
O'Moy, at his side, looked on without satisfaction. To him the close ofthis phase of the campaign which had justified his remaining in officemeant the reopening of that painful matter that had been left insuspense by circumstances since that June day of last year at Monsanto.The resignation then refused from motives of expediency must again betendered and must now be accepted.
Abruptly upon the general stillness came a sharply humming sound. Withina yard of the spot where Wellington sat his horse a handful of soilheaved itself up and fell in a tiny scattered shower. Immediatelyelsewhere in a dozen places was the phenomenon repeated. There wastoo much glitter about the staff uniforms and vindictive Frenchsharpshooters were finding them an attractive mark.
"They are firing on us, sir!" cried O'Moy on a note of sharp alarm.
"So I perceive," Lord Wellington answered calmly, and leisurely heclosed his glass, so leisurely that O'Moy, in impatient fear of hischief, spurred forward and placed himself as a screen between him andthe line of fire.
Lord Wellington looked at him with a faint smile. He was about to speakwhen O'Moy pitched forward and rolled headlong from the saddle.
They picked him up unconscious but alive, and for once Lord Wellingtonwas seen to blench as he flung down from his horse to inquire the natureof O'Moy's hurt. It was not fatal, but, as it afterwards proved, it wasgrave enough. He had been shot through the body, the right lung had beengrazed and one of his ribs broken.
Two days later, after the bullet had been extracted, Lord Wellingtonwent to visit him in the house where he was quartered. Bending over himand speaking quietly, his lordship said that which brought a moisture tothe eyes of Sir Terence and a smile to his pale lips. What actually werehis lordship's words may be gathered from the answer he received.
"Ye're entirely wrong, then, and it's mighty glad I am. For now I needno longer hand you my resignation. I can be invalided home."
So he was; and thus it happens that not until now--when this chroniclemakes the matter public--does the knowledge of Sir Terence's single butgrievous departure from the path of honour go beyond the few who wereimmediately concerned with it. They kept faith with him because theyloved him; and because they had understood all that went to the makingof his sin, they condoned it.
If I have done my duty as a faithful chronicler, you who read,understanding too, will take satisfaction in that it was so.
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