Gouache was all at once
aware that he was rushing up hill at the top of his speed towards
a small grove of trees that crowned the eminence. The bright red
shirts of the enemy were visible before him amongst the dry
underbrush, and before he knew what he was about he saw that he
had run a Garibaldian through the calf of the leg. The man tumbled
down, and Gouache stood over him, looking at him in some surprise.
While he was staring at his fellow-foe the latter pulled out a
pistol and fired at him, but the weapon only snapped harmlessly.
"As the thing won't go off," said the man coolly, "perhaps you
will be good enough to take your bayonet out of my leg."
He spoke in Italian, with a foreign accent, but in a tone of voice
and with a manner which proclaimed him a gentleman. There was a
look of half comic discomfiture in his face that amused Gouache,
who carefully extracted the steel from the wound, and offered to
help his prisoner to his feet. The latter, however, found it hard
to stand.
"Circumstances point to the sitting posture," he said, sinking
down again. "I suppose I am your prisoner. If you have anything to
do, pray do not let me detain you. I cannot get away and you will
probably find me here when you come back to dinner.
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