Woman-logic was clean beyond my poor
wits. I was sick for action. These glorious interludes with Margaret gave
me no chance. It was like setting me afire and asking me not to burn.
Thinking of the poor, half-flayed devil behind us, made me think of the
sergeant, and I asked Master Freake, "Did you give the sergeant his papers
and letter?"
"No," was the ready reply. "The papers dealt rather frankly with certain
regimental accounts, and, since the sergeant is now very bitterly set
against us, may be useful in my hands. I had a shrewd notion that the
letter concerned the title to certain lands as to which Lord Brocton and I
are at odds, and on opening it I found to my satisfaction that I was
right. With your permission, Oliver, I will keep it."
"By all means do so," said I, anxious to burn again, and turning back to
Margaret. If this silent, capacious man, so great a stranger yet so clear
a friend, had said that the letter was about a new edition of Virgil, I
should have believed him, and also, I fear me, have been equally
uninterested. Latin be damned!
"Something for you in Oliver's magic-hat," said Margaret smilingly to
Master Freake.
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