“My name, sir, is a humble one, and little worthy to be classed with those who have this day written theirs in the page of honor with their heart’s blood.  I am called Gerald Grantham.”

“Gerald Grantham!” repeated the Commandant, musingly, as though endeavoring to bring back the recollection of such a name.

The prisoner looked at him stedfastly in return, yet without speaking.

“Is there another of your name in the British squadron?” continued Colonel Forrester, fixing his eye full upon his prisoner.

“There are many in the British squadron whose names are unknown to me,” replied Gerald, evasively, and faintly coloring.

“Nay,” said Colonel Forrester, “that subterfuge more than any thing betrays you.  Though not answered, I am satisfied.  How we are to account for seeing a gallant sailor attacking us in our trenches, in the humble garb of a private soldier, and so out of his own element, I cannot understand; but the name of Gerald Grantham, coupled with your manner and appearance, assures us we are making personal acquaintance with one to whose deeds we are not strangers.  Gentlemen,” addressing his officers, “this is the Lieutenant Grantham, whose vessel was captured last autumn at Buffalo, and of whose gallant defence, my cousin, Captain Edward Forrester, has spoken so highly.  Lieutenant Grantham,” he pursued, advancing, and offering his hand, “when I had the happiness to save your life this day, by dashing aside the fuze that would have been the agent in your destruction, I saw in you but the brave and humble soldier, whom it were disgrace not to have spared for so much noble daring.  Judge how great must be my satisfaction to know that I have been the means of preserving, to his family and country, one whose name stands so high even in the consideration of his enemies.”

Poor Gerald! how bitter and conflicting must have been his feelings at that moment.  On the one side, touched by the highest evidences of esteem a brave and generous enemy could proffer—­on the other, annoyed beyond expression at the recollection of an interposition which had thwarted him in his fondest, dearest hope—­that of losing, at the cannon’s mouth, the life he loathed.  What had been done in mercy and noble forbearance, was to him the direst punishment that could be inflicted:—­yet how was it possible to deny gratitude for the motive which had impelled his preservation, or fail in acknowledgment of the appreciation in which he thus found himself personally held.

“It would be idle, Colonel Forrester,” he said, taking the proffered hand, “after the manner in which you have expressed yourself, to deny that I am the officer to whom you allude.  I feel deeply these marks of your regard, although I cannot but consider any little merit that may attach to me very much overrated by them.  My appearance in this dress, perhaps requires some explanation.  Presented by the shallowness of the river from co-operating with the army in my gun-boat, and tired of doing nothing, I had solicited and obtained permission to become one of the storming party in the quality of volunteer, which of necessity induced the garb in which you now behold me.  You know the rest.”