hough such behaviour should
be much admired, it is nicer to read of such things than to do them.
Captain Scuddy was of large and steady nature, and nothing came to him
with a jerk or jump--perhaps because he was such a jumper--and he wore
his hat well on the back of his head, because he had no fear of losing
it. But for all that he found himself in a sad quandary now.

To begin with, his parole was not an ordinary leave, afforded by his
captors to save themselves trouble; but a special grace, issuing from
friendship, and therefore requiring to be treated in a friendly vein.
The liberality of these terms had enabled him to dwell as a friend
among friends, and to overhear all that he had heard. In the balance
of perplexities, this weighed heavily against his first impulse to cast
away all except paramount duty to his country. In the next place, he
knew that private feeling urged him as hotly as public duty to cast away
all thought of honour, and make off. For what he had heard about the
"fair secretary" was rankling bitterly in his deep heart. He recalled
at this moment the admirable precept of an ancient sage, that in such
a conflict of duties the doubter should incline to the course least
agreeable to himself, inasmuch as the reasons against it are sure to be
urged the most feebly in self-council. Upon the whole, the question was
a nice one for a casuist; and if there had not been a day to spare, duty
to his country must have overridden private faith.

However, as there was time to spare, he resolved to reconcile private
honour with the sense of public duty; and returning to his room, wrote a
careful letter (of which he kept a copy) to his friend Desportes, now on
board, and commanding the flagship of one division of the flotilla. He
simply said, without giving his reason, that his parole must expire in
eight days after date, allowing one day for delivery of his letter.
Then he told M. Jalais what he had done, and much sorrow was felt in
the household. When the time had expired without any answer from Captain
Desportes, who meant to come and see him but was unable to do so,
Scudamore packed up a few things needful, expecting to be placed in
custody, and resolved to escape from it, at any risk of life. Then he
walked to Etaples, a few miles down the river, and surrendered himself
to the commandant there. This was a rough man--as Desportes had
said--and with more work to do than he could manage. With very little
ceremony