"Why this?" he
asked sharply.
"Because," said Sir Terence, "I prefer to tender it before it is
asked of me." He was very white, yet by an effort those deep
blue eyes of his met the terrible gaze of his chief without
flinching.
"Perhaps you'll explain," said his lordship coldly.
"In the first place," said O'Moy, "it was myself killed Samoval,
and since your lordship was a witness of what followed, you will
realise that that was the least part of my offence."
The great soldier jerked his head sharply backward, tilting forward
his chin. "So!" he said. "Ha! I beg your pardon, Grant, for
having disbelieved you." Then, turning to O'Moy again: "Well," he
demanded, his voice hard, "have you nothing to add?"
"Nothing that can matter," said O'Moy, with a shrug, and they
stood facing each other in silence for a long moment.
At last when Wellington spoke his voice had assumed a gentler
note.
"O'Moy," he said, "I have known you these fifteen years, and we
have been friends. Once you carried your friendship, appreciation,
and understanding of me so far as nearly to ruin yourself on my
behalf. You'll not have forgotten the affair of Sir Harry Burrard.
In all these years I have known you for a man of shining honour,
an honest, upright gentleman, whom I would have trusted when I
should have distrusted every other living man.
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