“The police, my dear sir!  What can the police do?”

“I may call in the police for the assault just committed by your servants, and have them up to Bow Street, but you cannot charge me with an assault.”

“But I will, by G—­d, sir, true or not true.”

“Indeed you would not, my dear father.  A De Benyon would never be guilty of a lie.  Besides, if you were to call in the police;—­I wish to argue this matter coolly, because I ascribe your present little burst of ill-humour to your sufferings from your unfortunate accident.  Allowing then, my dear father, that you were to charge me with an assault, I should immediately be under the necessity of charging you also, and then we must both go to Bow Street together.  Were you ever at Bow Street, general?” The general made no reply, and I proceeded.  “Besides, my dear sir, only imagine how very awkward it would be when the magistrate put you on your oath, and asked you to make your charge.  What would you be obliged to declare?  That you had married when young, and finding that your wife had no fortune, had deserted her the second day after your marriage.  That you, an officer in the army, and the Honourable Captain De Benyon, had hung up your child at the gates of the Foundling Hospital—­that you had again met your wife, married to another, and had been an accomplice in concealing her capital offence of bigamy, and had had meetings with her, although she belonged to another.  I say meetings, for you did meet her, to receive her directions about me.  I am charitable and suspect nothing—­others will not be so.  Then, after her death, you come home, and inquire about your son.  His identity is established,—­and what then? not only you do not take him by the hand, in common civility, I might say, but you first try to turn him out of the house, and to give him in charge of the police:  and then you will have to state for what.  Perhaps you will answer me that question, for I really do not know.”

By this time, my honoured father’s wrath had, to a certain degree, subsided; he heard all I had to say, and he felt how very ridiculous would have been his intended proceedings, and, as his wrath subsided, so did his pain increase; he had seriously injured his leg, and it was swelling rapidly—­the bandages tightened in consequence, and he was suffering under the acutest pain, “Oh, oh!” groaned he.

“My dear father, can I assist you?”

“Ring the bell, sir.”

“There is no occasion to summon assistance while I am here, my dear general.  I can attend you professionally, and if you will allow me, will soon relieve your pain.  Your leg has swollen from exertion, and the bandages must be loosened.”

He made no reply, but his features were distorted with extreme pain.  I went to him, and proceeded to unloose the bandages, which gave him considerable relief.  I then replaced them, secundum artem, and with great tenderness, and going to the sideboard, took the lotion which was standing there with the other bottles, and wetted the bandages.  In a few minutes he was quite relieved.  “Perhaps, sir,” said I, “you had better try to sleep a little.  I will take a book, and shall have great pleasure in watching by your side.”