Raoul's tribute to his smartness perplexed him and almost he scented a trap.
"Beg your pardon, Squire," he began heavily, forgetting military forms of address, "but the gentleman don't put it right." "Oh, hang your British modesty!" put in Raoul with a wry laugh.

"If it pleases you to represent that the whole thing was accidental and you don't deserve to be promoted sergeant for tonight's work, at least you might respect my vanity." Polly saw her opportunity.

She crossed boldly and made as if to lay over the Corporal's mouth the hand that would fain have boxed his ears.
"Reckon this is my affair," she announced, with an effrontery at which one of the footmen guffawed openly.

"Be modest as you please, my lad, when I've married 'ee; but I won't put up with modesty from anyone under a sergeant, and that I warn 'ee!" The Corporal eyed his sweetheart without forgiveness.

His mouth was open, but upon the word "sergeant," he shut it again and began to digest the idea.
"You know, of course, sir," Endymion Westcote addressed the prisoner coldly, "to what such a confession commits you?
I do not see what other construction the facts admit, but it is so serious in itself and in its consequences that I warn you--" "I have broken my _parole_, sir," said Raoul, simply.