Knightley watched Scrope for a little as earnestly as the rest.  Then—­“Harry!” he said, “Harry Scrope!” The name leaped from his lips in a pleading cry; he stretched out his hands towards Scrope, and the chain which bound them reached down to the table and rattled on the wood.

There was a simultaneous movement, almost a simultaneous ejaculation of bewilderment amongst those who stood about Knightley.  Where they had expected a deadly anger, they found in its place a beseeching humility.  And Scrope ceased from drumming on the table and turned on Knightley.

“Don’t shake your chains at me,” he burst out harshly.  “I am deaf to any reproach that they can make.  Are you the only man that has worn chains?  I can show as good, and better.”  He thrust the palm of his left hand under Knightley’s nose.  “Branded, d’ye see?  Branded.  There’s more besides.”  He set his foot on the chair and stripped the silk stocking down his leg.  Just above the ankle there was a broad indent where a fetter had bitten into the flesh.  “I have dragged a chain, you see; not like you among the Moors, but here in Tangier, on that damned Mole, in sight of these my brother officers.  By the Lord, Knightley, I tell you you have had the better part of it.”

“You!” cried Knightley.  “You dragged a chain on Tangier Mole?  For what offence?” And he added, with a genuine tenderness, “There was no disgrace in’t, I’ll warrant.”

Major Shackleton half checked an exclamation, and turned it into a cough.  Scrope leaned right across the table and stared straight into Knightley’s eyes.

“The offence was a duel,” he answered steadily, “fought on the night of January 6th two years ago.”

Knightley’s face clouded for an instant.  “The night when I was captured,” he said timidly.

“Yes.”

The officers drew closer about the table, and seemed to hold their breath, as the strange catechism proceeded.

“With whom did you fight?” asked Knightley.

“With a very good friend of mine,” replied Scrope, in a hard, even voice.

“On what account?”

“A woman.”

Knightley laughed with a man’s amused leniency for such escapades when he himself is in no way hurt by them.

“I said there would be no disgrace in’t, Harry,” he said, with a smile of triumph.

The heads of the listeners, which had bunched together, were suddenly drawn back.  A dark flush of anger overspread Scrope’s face, and the veins ridged up upon his forehead.  Some impatient speech was on the tip of his tongue, when the Major interposed.

“What’s this talk of penalties?  Where’s the sense of it?  Scrope paid the price of his fault.  He was admitted to the ranks afterwards.  He won a lieutenancy by sheer bravery in the field.  For all we know he may be again a captain to-morrow.  Anyhow he wears the King’s uniform.  It is a badge of service which levels us all from Ensign to Major in an equality of esteem.”