There was but one
drawback to the entire satisfaction of the Commander-in-Chief--one
of his favourite Generals was under arrest, and was being tried by
court-martial. The accused had refused the assistance of Counsel, and
had insisted upon pleading "Guilty."
"But," urged the Commander-in-Chief, "you surely have some excuse.
To sack a private house belonging to your own countryman was
unpardonable. It was an aimless piece of Vandalism! For your own
reputation--for the sake of your ancestors--on behalf of your
descendants--some explanation should be afforded."
"Surely this is no time for levity," murmured a Warrior-Journalist,
who was suspected of combining with the duties of a hero the labours
of a Special Correspondent for a Roman journal.
"Do I look like a jester?" asked the Prisoner; and then he added, "My
brave companions, it is for the honour of our country--to conceal her
poverty from the sneers of foreigners--that I carry with me the secret
of my action to the family vault. Press me no further--see, I am ready
for the firing-party!"
There was nothing further to be said, and the little procession made
its way to the Barrack Square. The Prisoner shook hands warmly with
his Judges, and with the weeping soldiery who were to act as
his executioners. "I will give the words of command myself.
Ready--present--"
"Stop!"
An aged man had approached the group. He was out of breath with
running. The firing-party paused, and lowered their rifles.
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