"Here's the very devil to pay, sir," he announced, with that odd
mixture of familiarity towards his friend and deference to his chief.
O'Moy looked at him in silence with smouldering, questioning eyes,
thinking of anything but the trouble which the captain's air and
manner heralded.
"Captain Stanhope has just arrived from headquarters with messages
for you. A terrible thing has happened, sir. The dispatches from
home by the Thunderbolt which we forwarded from here three weeks ago
reached Lord Wellington only the day before yesterday."
Sir Terence became instantly alert.
"Garfield, who carried them, came into collision at Penalva with an
officer of Anson's Brigade. There was a meeting, and Garfield was
shot through the lung. He lay between life and death for a fortnight,
with the result that the dispatches were delayed until he recovered
sufficiently to remember them and to have them forwarded by other
hands. But you had better see Stanhope himself."
The aide-de-camp came in. He was splashed from head to foot in
witness of the fury with which he had ridden, his hair was caked
with dust and his face haggard. But he carried himself with
soldierly uprightness, and his speech was brisk.
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