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.”