"I've a flask of brandy in my hip pocket," said Maurice. "Will
you help me to a nip, Colonel?"
"Pardon me, gentlemen; I had forgotten that your hands were
still in cords. Corporal," to a trooper, "relieve their hands."
The prisoners rubbed their wrists and hands, which were numb and
cold. Maurice produced his flask.
"I was bringing it along for your sprained ankle," he said, as
he extended the flask to Fitzgerald, who drank a third of it.
"I'd offer you some, Colonel, only it would be like heaping
coals of fire on your head; and, besides, I want it all myself."
He returned the emptied flask to his pocket, feeling a moderate
warmth inside.
"Drink away, my son," said the Colonel, climbing into the saddle;
"there'll be plenty for me for this night's work. Forward!"
The troop took up the march again, through a splendid forest
kept clear of dead wood by the peasants. It abounded with game.
The shrill cry of the pheasants, the rustle of the partridges in
the underbrush, the bark of the fox, all rose to the ears of the
trespassers. The smell of warm earth permeated the air, and the
sky was merging from silver into gold.
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