It appeared that Major Guthrie, on learning next morning of Major
Windham’s departure on his errand of mercy, had been not only
exceedingly angry, but suspicious as well—“or at least,” said Paton,
“he declared that he was suspicious”—and sent off a party almost
immediately to fetch in the wounded rebel from the shieling. About a
couple of hours later they returned, carrying him on a litter, which
they deposited outside their commander’s tent, where Paton happened to
be at the moment. Guthrie immediately went out to him, and said—the
narrator remembered his first words exactly—‘Well, my fine fellow, and
so you know where Lochiel is like to be skulking!’ The prisoner
replied by asking whether Major Guthrie thought he should tell him if
he did? Major Guthrie retorted, with a grin, that he knew it was the
thing to begin with a little bluster of the sort, but that they had
better get to business without wasting time. “And he added, sir,” said
the young soldier, looking away, “‘I know that you know; Major Windham
says so.’”
Keith had put his hand over his eyes. “Yes; go on,” he said after a
moment.
“This was plainly rather a blow to Mr. Cameron,” continued Paton. “I
saw the blood rush to his face. ‘_What_ did you say?’ he asked. The
Major replied that you, sir, being a loyal subject of King George,
were just as eager to secure Lochiel as himself, which was the reason
why you had very properly stopped him from having the prisoner shot.
To that Mr. Cameron replied, short and sharp, ‘I don’t believe it!’
The Major affected to misunderstand this, and . . . well, sir, he said
a good many things incriminating you in the affair, twisting what you
had, perhaps, said . . .”
“Try, for God’s sake, to remember what those things were,” begged
Keith miserably, without looking up.
The young man paused a moment, evidently trying to remember
accurately.
“First, I think, he told Mr. Cameron that you had said he was Cameron
of Ardroy, Lochiel’s cousin, and had had you as his prisoner after the
affair at High Bridge, and he added, ‘I doubt he wanted to get even
with you for that!’ And to make his assertion more credible he asked
Mr. Cameron how otherwise he should have known who he was, since he
took him for a gillie when he had him up against the shieling wall.
And the Major went on to say that for the news of Mr. Cameron’s
identity he was grateful to you, but not so grateful when he found
that you had stolen a march on him by sneaking back to the shieling by
night in order to get information out of the prisoner before he could.
But at that Mr. Cameron tried to raise himself on the litter, and
burst out, ‘That’s a lie!’ And then the Major silenced him by what I
can only suppose was an arrow drawn at a venture, since you . . . I
don’t suppose that you . . .” Paton began to stumble.
“Let me have it!” said Keith, looking up this time.
“He said, ‘And so he never speired about Lochiel . . . where he was
. . . if you kenned where he was?’”
Keith stared at the narrator half dazed. “How did he know that . . .
he _could_ not have known it!”
“As I say, it seemed to silence Mr. Cameron altogether,” continued
Paton, glancing at him with a sort of pity. “He looked quite dizzy as
he dropped back on the litter. But the Major laughed. And he went on,
in that bantering way he has: ‘I hope you did not tell him, for I want
you to tell _me_. Did you tell him?’ The rebel took no notice of this
question; he had shut his eyes. It was as I looked at him then, sir,
and saw the effect which that question had had on him, that I first
began, I confess, to have doubts of your good faith.”
“You had cause,” answered Keith with a groan. “I did ask him about
Lochiel—in all innocence. My God, what he must think of me!” He took
his head between his hands. “Go on!”
“Finding that Mr. Cameron was silent,” resumed Paton, “Major Guthrie
went nearer and said something, I do not exactly remember what, about
dropping a hint inadvertently with regard to Lochiel’s hiding-place,
which it was easy to do, he said, and which he should give the
prisoner every opportunity of doing, keeping him there, indeed, until
he did. He kept harping for awhile on this question of dropping a
hint, and he brought you even into that, for he said that it was your
suggestion, that you had advised him to bring the rebel into camp and
watch him well for that purpose. . . . And from what you have just
told me, sir, it seems that that was true.”
Paton paused; but Keith, his head between his hands, said nothing; he
was beyond it. This was what came of doing evil in order to accomplish
good!
“Still Mr. Cameron took no notice,” pursued Paton, “even when the
Major went on to say in so many words that you had betrayed him—Mr.
Cameron—and had then ridden off, leaving _him_ the dirty work to do.
Then he changed his tone, and said, ‘But I shall not flinch from it;
’tis my duty. Do you know, Mr. Cameron of Ardroy, how we deal with
folk that have valuable information and will not part with it?’ At
that the prisoner did open his eyes, and said with a good deal of
contempt that, from what he had seen of the Major, he could very well
guess.
“The Major at that bent over him and gripped him by the nearer arm. He
may not have observed that it was bandaged—I cannot say—and repeated,
‘Ah, you can quite imagine, can you? D’you think you’ll like it?’ Mr.
Cameron did not answer; perhaps he could not, for he was biting his
lip, and I saw the sweat come out on his brow. Major Guthrie let go
and stood up again, and said that a flogging with belts would soon
loosen his tongue; and that did rouse Mr. Cameron, for he coloured
hotly and said he thought the Major forgot that he was a gentleman.
But the Major replied with a chuckle that he looked so little like
one at present that it was easy to assume that he was not. Then he
asked him whether he intended to save himself from this unpleasant
experience, as he easily could do; Mr. Cameron’s look was sufficient
answer to that. So, to my horror, the Major sent for the drummers and
ordered a tent to be struck, in order to have the pole available to
tie him up to.”
“This is intolerable!” exclaimed Keith, starting up. “Stop! I had
rather not——” He pulled himself together. “No, I have got to hear it.
Go on!”
“I assure you that I did not enjoy it,” said the young officer, “for
_I_ thought that the matter was going through. They lifted Mr. Cameron
off the litter; he could not stand, it appeared, owing to the wound in
his thigh, and the men were obliged to support him. But the Major said
to him that he would not be able to fall this time, as he had done
yesterday, because we had ropes here. . . . I myself, who would
willingly have interfered before, sir, had there been any chance of
being listened to, now took the Major by the arm and told him plainly
that he would kill the prisoner if he was so barbarous as to have him
flogged in his present condition. But he shook me off, and said, when
everything was ready (except Mr. Cameron himself, who was still held
up there, facing him, as white as you please, but perfectly unyielding
and defiant): ‘Now, before you make acquaintance with His Majesty’s
leather, will you tell me what you know about Lochiel?’ And the rebel,
with his eyes blazing, said, in a sudden access of fury, ‘Not if you
cut me to pieces!’
“Well, sir, though I am convinced that the Major was not acting a part
and merely threatening, but that he really meant to go through with
the horrid business, I think it must have come to him then that, if he
did, he would have Mr. Cameron dead on his hands, as I had warned him,
and there would be an end to that source of information. (It is
possible, too, that he thought he might be called to account for it
afterwards.) And even the men were looking uneasy and murmuring a
little. So he said that he would postpone the flogging until the
afternoon. He had the prisoner carried into his own tent, not much, I
fear, the better for this scene; and in his tent Mr. Cameron was all
the rest of the day and the night. I do not know what passed in there,
for whenever I made an effort to go in, I was stopped; but I am sure
the Major questioned him pretty continuously. He still spoke of the
flogging taking place, but it never did. Next morning I was not
surprised to hear that the prisoner seemed worse, and in a fever, so
that the Major resolved to be rid of him, and sent him to Fort
Augustus. I was heartily glad, for his own sake, to see Mr. Cameron
taken away. And at Fort Augustus he must have had care, or he would
not be alive now, which he is, for I asked news of him yesterday, as
we came by. But that I should be ashamed to meet him, I would fain
have seen him to ask his pardon.”
Paton’s voice ceased; in the silence one of the horses near them
stamped and blew out its nostrils. Keith, standing there very still,
released his own tightly gripped elbows.
“Mr. Paton, I thank you most heartily for your frankness. I, too, am
ashamed—with much more cause than you, I think—yet I am going back to
Fort Augustus to see Mr. Cameron.”
“Back to Fort Augustus—to-night!” said Paton, rather startled.
“Yes, to-night. My horse,” he glanced at that animal, “can still carry
me so far—a matter of ten or twelve miles, is it not? I intended to
lie here the night, and to start about six o’clock to-morrow morning
for Inverness. I shall lie at Fort Augustus instead, and start
proportionately earlier, that is all. I must find my orderly at once,
but I shall not take him back with me.”
Paton said no more, and they went out of the barn together, by which
evacuation the waiting soldiers outside, huddled against its wall for
shelter, were enabled to enter their sleeping-place. While the
surprised Mackay resaddled his officer’s horse, Keith strode back to
the inn parlour. But just outside, where he could hear Guthrie’s voice
in conversation, he paused. If he meant to get back to Fort Augustus
he must not enter Guthrie’s presence first; the fury and resentment
which possessed him could have but one result—a quarrel with
the Lowlander. Moreover, Lieutenant Paton might suffer for his
communicativeness. Clenching his hands, Keith turned away from
temptation.
But there was one last question to ask.
“Mr. Paton,” he said in a low voice as his horse was brought towards
him, “have you any notion why Major Guthrie hates me so, for it is
plain that he does?”
And to his surprise the young man answered, in a voice equally low:
“I have a very good notion why, sir. He had had great hopes of
securing that post on General Hawley’s staff which was eventually
given to you. Your obtaining it was a very sore point with him,
because he thought his claims superior to those of an officer who—who
. . .” Paton hesitated.
“Yes, I understand,” said Keith, his mouth tightening. “Who had lost
one of the companies at High Bridge.” Guthrie’s sneers on that fatal
ride were explained now. “So that was my offence!” he said under his
breath, as he swung into the saddle. “And this is how he has avenged
himself!”
* * * * * *
The wind had risen greatly in the last hour, and the rain was no
longer a fine, almost caressing, drizzle; it beat upon the rider as he
urged his horse back along the lower levels with a vehemence which
predicted real difficulty in proceeding when he should reach the
higher. But he did not notice it.
There could not be the slightest doubt that Ewen Cameron must believe
him to have acted in a manner unspeakably treacherous and vile. From
the deadly success of Guthrie’s ‘arrow at a venture’, as Paton had
rightly called it, he must even think that his visitor had gone
straight back from tending him in the shieling to Guthrie’s camp with
the news that he had succeeded in gaining the fugitive’s confidence,
and had ascertained that he did know of Lochiel’s hiding-place. It was
an absolutely intolerable thought, and nothing, nothing should stop
him until he had seen Ardroy and assured him of his innocence—neither
the rising storm nor fatigue, nor the possible danger in riding thus
alone at night (though to that, despite the afternoon’s attempt on
his life, he gave scarcely a thought), nor Lord Albemarle’s despatch.
It was a mercy that this contained, as he knew, nothing of urgency,
nothing but a mere expression of compliments, and that he could
therefore retrace his steps consistently with his military obligations.
In any case, the letter would reach Inverness no later than if he had
spent the night at the General’s Hut, so on that score at least his
mind was at rest.
It was certainly the only score on which it was. The more Keith
thought of the situation, the more it horrified him. Why, good God,
Ardroy might even imagine that the infamous proposal of flogging,
which turned him hot to think of, came from _him_! Guthrie was
evidently quite capable of stating that it had, and though Paton had
not reported him as having done so in his hearing, who knew what had
been said, what had been done, during the rest of the twenty-four
hours in Guthrie’s tent? He was utterly without scruple, and Ardroy
completely helpless.
Yet even now Keith could hardly blame himself for his total absence of
suspicion that Guthrie might be tempted to do more than question his
prisoner . . . rather closely perhaps. No, he told himself again and
again, he could not have guessed to what he was delivering up Ardroy.
A prisoner-of-war—above all, an officer—in a Christian country and a
civilised century stood in no danger of such proceedings. It was true
that there had been barbarity after the battle, barbarity which had
sickened him, but there had never been any suggestion of deliberately
torturing prisoners in order to extract information. (For Major
Lockhart of Cholmondeley’s regiment, Captain Carolina Scott of
Guise’s, and Captain Ferguson of H.M.S. _Furness_—all Scots, too—had
still to win their spurs in this field.)
Keith was up on the higher levels now, where the wind was really
savage, and the rain stung like missiles. It seemed as though the
elements desired to oppose his return. But his thoughts ran ahead of
him to Fort Augustus. Would there be difficulty in getting access to
the prisoner? There might be some, but an officer on Hawley’s staff,
riding on the Duke’s business, would be hard to gainsay. If necessary
he should approach the Earl of Loudoun himself. And in what state
should he find Ardroy? What sort of a captivity had been his now that
he was out of that scoundrel Guthrie’s clutches? Remembrances of
Inverness, very sinister remembrances, kept floating into his mind.
No, it would be different here; and, as Paton had pointed out, they
must have taken good care of the Highlander, or he would hardly be
alive now, judging from his state a week ago—a state which must have
been, which evidently had been, rendered even more precarious by
Guthrie’s damnable proceedings. On Guthrie himself he hardly dared
allow his mind to dwell; but there could not be another like him at
Fort Augustus!
And when he had got access to Ardroy? Surely it would not be difficult
to convince him that it was Major Guthrie’s almost incredible spite
and jealousy which had wrought this mischief, that nothing in the
world had been farther from his own thoughts than the belief that Ewen
would betray his Chief? Yes, but unfortunately, though he could deny
everything else (save the mere fact of having been forced to establish
Ardroy’s identity) he could not deny that most unlucky suggestion to
which, in desperation, he had been reduced on the hillside. Oh, if
only he had not shirked telling Ewen Cameron of it that night in the
shieling! Better, far better, to have faced a measure of shame on that
occasion than to have left in Major Guthrie’s hands a weapon capable
of working this havoc!
For Guthrie, it was clear, had, in his calculated spite, struck at him
through Ewen and at Ewen through him. He had evidently _wished_ the
Highlander to believe himself betrayed. Did he then think the ties
between them so close when they were only . . . What were they then?
Was it really only philanthropy, as Keith had assured himself a few
hours ago, which had sent him back to the shieling that night? It was
certainly not philanthropy which was driving him to Fort Augustus now.
At nine o’clock, wet and buffeted, he was back in the lines of
Loudoun’s camp, still humming with life. Mentioning that he was on the
staff he asked, as he had asked that afternoon, to see the officer in
charge of prisoners there. Once again there was an obstacle; this time
it appeared that the officer, a certain Captain Greening, was closeted
with Lord Loudoun, who was very busy, and not to be disturbed save for
a matter of great importance.
Keith still retained enough sense of proportion to realise that a
private enquiry after the well-being of a rebel prisoner was not
likely to wear that aspect in the eyes of Cope’s late adjutant-general.
However, perhaps he could arrive at seeing Ardroy without the consent
of Captain Greening, so he said to his informant, the officer of the
guard:
“I wish to see a certain Mr. Ewen Cameron of Ardroy, who lies here a
prisoner. He was taken last week not far from the Corryarrick Pass. Do
you think this would be possible without deranging Captain Greening?”
“Cameron of Ardroy?” said the lieutenant with an accent of
enlightenment. “Oh, have you come from Inverness about the question of
Lochiel’s capture, sir? Then you will be glad to hear that we have got
the necessary information at last.”
Keith’s heart gave a great twist—foolishly, surely! “Ah, from whom?”
“Why, from him—from Cameron of Ardroy, naturally. We knew that he had
it.”
This time Keith’s heart did not twist—it seemed to die in his breast.
“Got it from him—from _him_!” he faltered with cold lips. “When?”
“Last night, I believe,” answered the lieutenant carelessly, pulling
his cloak closer about him. “But I fear that I cannot give you
permission to visit him, sir, and as Captain Greening is——”
But to his surprise the staff officer was gripping him hard by the
arm. “Tell me, in God’s name, what means you used? Ardroy would
never——” He seemed unable to finish.
“Means? I really don’t know,” replied the lieutenant, still more
surprised. “I should be obliged if you would let go my arm, sir! I
have nothing to do with the prisoners. Perhaps this Cameron was
promised his liberty or something of the sort—but on my soul I don’t
know . . . or care,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his arm as
Keith released it.
“Promised!” cried Keith in a tempest of fury and horror. “No, he has
been tortured into it!—that is the only possible explanation of his
giving that information—if it be true that he has done so. My God,
what has this campaign reduced men to! Take me to Lord Loudoun at
once!”
“I cannot, sir,” protested the lieutenant. “He has given the strictest
orders——”
“Take me to him at once,” repeated Keith in a dangerous voice; and the
young officer, probably thinking that the safest way to deal with a
superior who seemed off his balance was to humour him, shrugged his
shoulders, and began to lead him in the rain between the tents.
Last night! That meant, then, that for nearly a week they had been
trying . . . and had succeeded at last in wresting the secret from a
man badly wounded, ill from starvation, and now, perhaps, dying—dying
as much of a broken heart as from their usage of him. It was with that
unbearable picture of Ewen Cameron in his mind that, after parleys
with sentries of which he heard nothing, Keith stepped into the Earl
of Loudoun’s presence without any clear idea of what he was going to
do there.
He found himself in a large, well-furnished tent, with a brazier
burning in one corner, and, round a table, several officers of various
ranks (most of them, like the Earl himself, wearing tartan), was
announced as an officer of the staff from Inverness, and, duly
saluting, gave his name and regiment.
The Earl of Loudoun—more Lowland Scot than Highlander in his
appearance—looked less annoyed at the interruption than might have
been expected; indeed his air showed that he supposed the intruder to
be the bearer of some tidings of importance from head-quarters.
“You are on His Royal Highness’s staff, Major Windham?” he asked.
“On General Hawley’s, my Lord,” replied Keith. “I am on my way back to
Inverness from Perth, and I have ventured to ask for this interview
because——”
“You have not a despatch for me from the Duke, then—or from General
Hawley?”
“No, my Lord. I have but seized this opportunity of appealing to your
Lordship on behalf of a prisoner here”—the Earl’s homely,
blunt-featured face changed—“who, if he has really made any
disclosures, can only have done so under violent measures, taken
unknown to your Lordship, and I——”
“What is all this about a prisoner?” interrupted Loudoun, frowning.
“You mean to say, Major Windham, that you are here on a purely private
matter, when I especially gave orders—— Who admitted you to me under
false pretences?”
But the officer of the guard had discreetly vanished.
“Is it a purely private matter, my Lord,” retorted Keith hotly, “that
a badly wounded Highland gentleman should be tortured into giving
information against his own Chief? It seems to me a matter affecting
the good name of the whole army. I only hope that I have been
misinformed, and that no such disclosures have been dragged from him.”
“Have you come here, sir,” asked Lord Loudoun with increasing
displeasure, “and on no one’s authority but your own, to dictate to me
on the treatment of prisoners?”
“No, indeed, my Lord,” replied Keith, making an effort to be properly
deferential. “I have come, on the contrary, because I feel sure that
your Lordship——”
“If you want news of any prisoner,” interrupted his Lordship with a
wave of the hand, “you must wait until Captain Greening here is at
liberty. Meanwhile you will perhaps have the goodness to remember that
I only marched in to Fort Augustus this morning, and am still so
pressed with business that I see small chance of sleep to-night if I
am to be interrupted in this manner.”
It was a dismissal: less harsh than at one moment seemed likely, but
proving to Keith that he had gained nothing. He tried another tack.
“My Lord, give me permission then, I implore you, to visit the
prisoner in question, Mr. Ewen Cameron of Ardroy.”
Loudoun’s eyebrows went up. “Is there anyone of that name confined
here, Captain Greening?” he asked in an annoyed voice, turning to a
fair, rather womanish looking young man on his left.
Captain Greening smiled a peculiar little smile. “Oh, yes, my Lord; he
has been here nearly a week. Major Windham has already made enquiries
for him once to-day, so I hear—when he passed on his way to Inverness
this afternoon. I was out of camp at the time.”
“What!” exclaimed the Earl, looking from the officer to Keith in
astonishment. “Major Windham has been through Fort Augustus once
already to-day? This is very singular! Instead of your questioning me,
Major Windham, I will ask you to explain your own conduct. Kindly tell
me on what errand you originally left head-quarters?”
Keith saw a possible gulf opening for himself now. But he was too
passionately indignant to care much. “I have been to Perth, my Lord,
with a despatch from His Royal Highness to Lord Albemarle. I was on my
way back to Inverness to-day when I heard that Cameron of Ardroy——”
“Leave Cameron of Ardroy out of it, if you please!” said Lord Loudoun
in growing anger. “What I want, Major Windham, is some explanation of
your own extraordinary behaviour. I gather that you are now on your
way back from Perth. Are you carrying despatches from Lord Albemarle
to His Royal Highness, or are you empty-handed?”
“I have a letter, of no particular moment, from Lord Albemarle to the
Duke,” replied Keith more warily.
“You have, at any rate, a despatch, sir. You have passed this place
already on your way to Inverness, carrying it. Some hours later you
are back again, making fresh enquiries about a rebel. Had you confided
your despatch to another hand in the interval?”
“No, my Lord,” confessed Keith. “Knowing that the matter was not
urgent, and that it was impossible for me to reach Inverness to-night,
I resolved to lie at the General’s Hut. There I heard something which
determined me to have more reliable news of Mr. Cameron of Ardroy, to
whom I owe it that I am alive at all to-day. Instead of going to bed
at the General’s Hut I rode back here, and whether I start from
Boleskine at six or from Fort Augustus at half-past four, Lord
Albemarle’s letter will reach His Royal Highness’s hands at exactly
the same hour.”
“You seem to have a strangely easy idea of your military duties, Major
Windham,” commented Lord Loudoun, drumming on the table. “May I ask
how long you have borne His Majesty’s commission?”
“Twelve years,” answered Keith curtly.
“And in all those years you have not learnt the sacredness of a
despatch! You are entrusted with one to the Commander-in-Chief, and
you take upon yourself to turn back in order to assure yourself of the
welfare of a rebel prisoner!—Is it true that this man has made a
disclosure?” he asked suddenly of Captain Greening.
“Quite true, my Lord,” responded the fair young officer. “I have notes
of it here; it was one of the matters which I desired to bring to your
Lordship’s notice. It relates to Lochiel’s hiding-place near Loch
Arkaig, and will prove of the greatest service in your Lordship’s
future operations.”
At that reply all thoughts of his own situation abandoned Keith; he
was caught up again in a wave of fury and shame. “My God!” he cried,
striding forward, his eyes fixed on Captain Greening, “are there
devils here too? You have tortured him into it . . . never deny it,
I’ll not believe you! As well be in a camp of Red Indians or African
savages! Inverness was bad enough, with its prisons stuffed with
purposely neglected wounded; then that man Guthrie, and now——”
Lord Loudoun sprang up, very threatening of aspect. “Major Windham,
may I ask you to remember where you are! I’ll not be spoken to in
such a manner!”
“I was not addressing you, my Lord,” said Keith fiercely. “I know that
you only reached Fort Augustus this morning. You are not responsible
for what has been going on—God knows what it was—before you came. But
this officer here——”
“Be silent, sir!” shouted the Earl of Loudoun. “Neither will I have
aspersions cast on officers now under my command . . . and by a member
of General Hawley’s staff, too! Are your own hands so clean, pray? You
do not deserve that I should reply to your insinuations, but—Captain
Greening, _was_ this information got from the Cameron prisoner by
unlawful means?”
“No, my Lord, I assure you that it was not. He gave it . . .
voluntarily.” But again there was that little smile.
“There, you hear, sir!” said the Earl. “Your charges——”
“I don’t believe it,” said Keith in the same moment. “I will not
believe it until I hear it from Ardroy himself.”
And at that Lord Loudoun completely lost his temper. “God’s name, am I
to suffer you to browbeat me in my own tent?—you, who have just
behaved in a manner unpardonable in a soldier! Major Windham, I place
you under arrest for insubordination. You will kindly give up your
sword!”
It was as if a douche of cold water had descended on Keith’s head. His
left hand went to his swordhilt. “Insubordination, my Lord? No, I
protest!”
“Very well, it shall be for neglect of duty, then,” said the Earl,
still very angry. “Lord Albemarle’s despatch is in truth not safe with
a man who can go twenty miles out of his way while carrying it. I
shall send it on by one of my own aides-de-camp to-night. Give it up
at once, if you do not wish to be searched. Captain Munro, call a
guard!”
Like rain upon a bonfire, the cold douche had, after a temporary
extinction, only inflamed Keith Windham’s rage. He unhooked his sword,
scabbard and all, and flung it at Loudoun’s feet, saying that he was
glad to be rid of it. By this time—seeing too that the falling weapon
had nearly caught his Lordship on the toes—every officer in the tent
was rushing towards him. “Reassure yourselves, gentlemen,” said Keith,
laughing angrily, and, opening his uniform, took out Lord Albemarle’s
despatch and tendered it to the nearest. Then, without more ado, he
followed the guard out into the rain, his last memory, as he left the
lighted tent, not of Lord Loudoun’s affronted, angry face, but of
Captain Greening’s, with that sly, secretly amused smile round his
girlish mouth.