Ensign Knightley | Page 7

though he must make what defence he
could for Scrope, "the story is not the politest in the world. But, then,

you know Tangier--it is only a tiny outpost on the edges of the world
where we starve behind broken walls forgotten of our friends. We have
the Moors ever swarming at our gates and the wolf ever snarling at our
heels, and so the niceties of conduct are lost. We have so little time
wherein to live, and that little time is filled with the noise of battle.
Passion has its way with us in the end, and honour comes to mean no
more than bravery and a gallant death."
He remained a few moments silent, and then disconnectedly he told
Wyley the rest of the story.
"It was only three years ago that Knightley came to Tangier. He should
never have brought his wife with him. Scrope and Knightley became
friends. All Tangier knew the truth pretty soon, and laughed at
Knightley's ignorance.... I remember the night of January 6th very well.
I was Captain of the Guard that night too. A spy brought in news that
we might expect a night attack. I sent Knightley with the news to Lord
Inchiquin. On the way back he stepped into his own house. It was late
at night. Mrs. Knightley was singing some foolish song to Scrope. The
two men came down into the street and fought then and there. The
quarter was aroused, the combatants arrested and brought to me....
There are two faults which our necessities here compel us to punish
beyond their proper gravity: duelling, for we cannot afford to lose
officers that way; and brawling in the streets at night, because the
Moors lie perdus under our walls; ready to take occasion as it comes.
Of Scrope's punishment you have heard. Knightley I released for that
night. He was on guard--I could not spare him. We were attacked in the
morning, and repulsed the attack. We followed up our success by a
sortie in which Knightley fell."
Wyley began again to wonder at what particular point in this story
Knightley's recollection broke off; and, further, what particular fear it
was that kept him from all questions even concerning his wife.
Knightley's voice was heard behind them, and they turned back into the
room. The Ensign had shaved his matted beard and combed out his hair,
which now curled and shone graciously about his head and shoulders;
his face, too, for all that it was wasted, had taken almost a boyish zest,
and his figure, revealed in the graceful dress of his regiment, showed
youth in every movement. He was plainly by some years a younger
man than Scrope.

He saluted the Major, and Wyley noticed that with his uniform he
seemed to have drawn on something of a soldierly confidence.
"There's your supper, lad," said Shackleton, pointing to a few poor
herrings and a crust of bread which an orderly had spread upon the
table. "It is scanty."
"I like it the better," said Knightley with a laugh; "for so I am assured I
am at home, in Tangier. There is no beef, I suppose?"
"Not so much as a hoof."
"No butter?"
"Not enough to cover a sixpence."
"There is cheese, however." He lifted up a scrap upon a fork.
"There will be none to-morrow."
"And as for pay?" he asked slyly.
"Two years and a half in arrears."
Knightley laughed again.
"Moreover," added Shackleton, "out of our nothing we may presently
have to feed the fleet. It is indeed the pleasantest joke imaginable."
"In a week, no doubt," rejoined Knightley, "I shall be less sensible of
its humour. But to-night--well, I am home in Tangier, and that contents
me. Nothing has changed." At that he stopped suddenly. "Nothing has
changed?" This time the phrase was put as a question, and with the
halting timidity which he had shown before. No one answered the
question. "No, nothing has changed," he said a third time, and again his
eyes began to travel wistfully from face to face.
Tessin abruptly turned his back; Shackleton blinked his eyes at the
ceiling with altogether too profound an unconcern; Scrope reached out
for the wine, and spilt it as he filled his glass; Wyley busily drew
diagrams with a wet finger on the table.
All these details Knightley remarked. He laid down his fork, he rested
his elbow on the table, his forehead upon his hand. Then absently he
began to hum over to himself a tune. The rhythm of it was somehow
familiar to the Surgeon's ears. Where had he heard it before? Then with
a start he remembered. It was this very rhythm, that very tune, which
Scrope's fingers had beaten out on the table when he first saw