Part 43 (2/2)

O'Moy bowed his head, crushed under that rebuff. He clasped and unclasped 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. ”As a man, I suppose I may be glad that my duty as Commander-in-Chief placed me 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!”

”Tus.h.!.+” 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 the sternly 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 and broke off. ”But must I go home?” he pleaded.

”What else? And, by G.o.d, sir, you should be thankful, I think.”

”Very well,” was the dull answer, and then he flared out. ”Faith, it's your own fault for giving me a job of this kind. You knew me. You know that I am just a blunt, simple soldier--that my place is at the head of a regiment, not at the head of an administration. You should have known that by putting me out of my proper element I was bound to get into trouble sooner or later.”

”Perhaps I do,” said Wellington. ”But what am I to do with you now?” He shrugged, 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 of summer 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 is about to take the field!”

But Wellington did not hear him, or did not seem to hear him. He had reached the window and his eye was caught by something that he saw in the courtyard.

”What the devil's this now?” he rapped out. ”That is one of Sir Robert Craufurd's aides.”

He turned and went quickly to the door. He opened it as rapid steps approached along the pa.s.sage, accompanied by the jingle of spurs and the clatter of sabretache and trailing sabre. Colonel Grant appeared, followed by a young officer of Light Dragoons who was powdered from head to foot with dust. The youth--he was little more--lurched forward wearily, yet at sight of Wellington he braced himself to attention and saluted.

”You appear to have ridden hard, sir,” the Commander greeted him.

”From Almeida in forty-seven hours, my lord,” was the answer. ”With these 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 horsemans.h.i.+p, Mr. Hamilton,” he commended him; and a faint tinge in the lad's haggard cheeks responded to that rare praise.

”The urgency was great, my lord,” replied Mr. Hamilton.

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