Title: Second to None, Volume 1 (of 3) - A Military Romance
Author: Grant, James
Language: English
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  SECOND TO NONE.


  A Military Romance.



  BY

  JAMES GRANT,

  AUTHOR OF
  "THE ROMANCE OF WAR," "THE CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD,"
  "THE YELLOW FRIGATE," ETC. ETC.



  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. I.



  LONDON:
  ROUTLEDGE, WARNE, AND ROUTLEDGE,
  BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL.
  NEW YORK: 129, GRAND STREET.

  1864.



PREFACE.

In the following pages, and in delineating the character of my hero,
I have chosen the ranks of the 2nd Dragoons, not because of any
national partiality, but from the desire to describe the adventures
of a soldier in a brave old regiment, which has served with
distinction in every war since its formation--in short, from the
battles of the Covenant to those in the Crimea; which had the proud
distinction of capturing the Colours of the Regiment du Roi at
Ramillies, the White Standard of King Louis' Household Troops at
Dettingen, and the Colour and Eagle of Napoleon's 45th Foot at
Waterloo.

Several historical incidents, and one or two traditions of the
Service are interwoven with the story of Basil Gauntlet, the Scots
Grey.

I may mention that the misfortunes of his comrade Charters are nearly
similar to those which befel an officer of the 15th Hussars prior to
the war in the Peninsula; and that the dark story and death of the
engineer Monjoy and of Madame d'Escombas formed one of the _causes
célèbres_ before the Parliament of Paris during the middle of the
last century.

EDINBURGH, 1st _May_, 1864.



  CONTENTS

  OF

  THE FIRST VOLUME.


  CHAP.

  I. BY THE WAYSIDE
  II. RUTH WYLIE
  III. THE SEQUEL
  IV. MY COUSIN TONY
  V. THE INN
  VI. ENLISTMENT
  VII. MY COMRADES
  VIII. HEAD QUARTERS
  IX. MY HOPE FOR THE FUTURE
  X. THE FRENCH DESERTERS
  XI. WANDSWORTH COMMON
  XII. THE RACE
  XIII. THE HANDKERCHIEF
  XIV. THE RED LION AT GUILDFORD
  XV. SAIL FOR FRANCE
  XVI. THE LANDING AT CANCALLE
  XVII. THE VIDETTE
  XVIII. HALT AT ST. SERVAND
  XIX. THE SACK OF ST. SOLIDORE
  XX. AN EPISODE
  XXI. JACQUELINE



SECOND TO NONE.



CHAPTER I.

BY THE WAYSIDE.

My adventures were my sole inheritance long before I thought of
committing them to paper for the amusement of myself, and--may I
hope--for the instruction of others.

Wayward has been my fate--my story strange; for my path in life--one
portion of it at least--has been among perils and pitfalls, and full
of sorrow and mortification, but not, however, without occasional
gleams of sunshine and triumph.

On an evening in the month of February--no matter in what year,
suffice it to say that it was long, long ago--I found myself near a
little town on the Borders between England and Scotland, with a
shilling in my hand, and this small coin I surveyed with certain
emotions of solicitude, because it was my _last one_.

I sat by the wayside under an old thorn-tree whereon the barons of
Netherwood had hung many a Border outlaw and English mosstrooper in
the olden time; and there I strove to consider what I should do next;
but my mind seemed a very chaos.

In this unenviable condition I found, myself on the birthday of my
eighteenth year--I, the heir to an old title and to a splendid
fortune--homeless, and well-nigh penniless, without having committed
a crime or an error of which conscience could accuse me.

The rolling clouds were gathering in grey masses on the darkening
summits of the Cheviot hills in the hollows of which the snows of the
past winter lay yet unmelted.  The cold wind moaned in the leafless
woods, and rustled the withered leaves that the autumn gales had
strewn along the highway.  The dull February evening crept on, and
the road that wound over the uplands was deserted, for the last
wayfarer had gone to his home.  The sheep were in their pen and the
cattle in their fold; no sound--not even the bark of a dog--came from
the brown sides of the silent hills, and, affected by the gloomy
aspect of Nature, my heart grew heavy, after its sterner and fiercer
emotions passed away.

The last flush of sunset was fading in the west; but I could see
about three miles distant the gilt vanes and round turrets of
Netherwood Hall shining above the strove of leafless trees that
surrounded it, and I turned away with a sigh of bitterness, for
adversity had not yet taught me philosophy.  I was too young.

With the express intention of visiting Netherwood Hall, I had
travelled several miles on foot; but now, when in sight of the place,
my spirit failed and my heart sickened within me; and thus,
irresolute and weary, I seated myself by the side of the way, and
strove to arrange my thoughts.

To be brief, I shall describe in a few pages, who and what I am, and
how on that sombre February evening I came to be on such unfortunate
terms with old Dame Fortune.

My grandfather, Sir Basil Gauntlet, of Netherwood, had so greatly
resented his eldest son's marriage with a lady who had no fortune
save her beauty, that he withdrew all countenance and protection from
him.  So far did he carry this unnatural enmity, that by will he
bequeathed all his property to the son of a brother, and, with great
barbarity, permitted my father to be consigned to the King's Bench
prison, by which his commission in the cavalry was forfeited; and
there, though a brave and high-spirited officer, who had served under
the Marquis of Granby, he died of despair!

My mother soon followed him to the land that lies beyond the grave;
and thus in infancy I was left, as the phrase is, to the _tender_
mercies of the world in general, and my old bruin of a grandfather in
particular.

Yet this upright Sir Basil, who was so indignant at his son's
penniless marriage, had been in youth one of the wildest rakes of his
time.  He had squandered vast sums on the lovely Lavinia Fenton--the
original Polly Peachum--and other fair dames, her contemporaries;
indeed, it was current in every green-room in London, that he would
have run off with this beautiful actress, had he not been
anticipated, as all the world knows, or ought to know, by his grace
the Duke of Bolton, who made her his wife.

Sir Basil had been wont to drink his three bottles daily, as he said,
"without a hair of his coat being turned."  He had paraded three of
his best friends, on three different occasions, for over-night
insults of which he had a very vague recollection in the morning; but
then "after what had occurred," what else could he do? and so after
bathing his head and right arm in vinegar to make his aim steady, he
winged them all at Wimbledon Common, or the back of Montagu House.

In London he was the terror of the watch, and would smash all the
lamps in Pall Mall or elsewhere, when, after losing perhaps a
thousand guineas at White's among blacklegs and bullies, or after
carrying the sedan of some berouged fair one through the streets with
links flaring before it, he came reeling home, probably with a broken
sword in one hand, a bottle in the other, and his pockets stuffed
with brass knockers and other men's wigs; consequently Sir Basil
should have remembered the days of his youth, and have tempered the
acts of his old age with mercy; but it was otherwise.

I do not mean to detain the reader by a long history of my earlier
years; for if those of a Cæsar or an Alexander have but little in
them to excite interest, still less must the boyhood of one who began
the world as a simple dragoon in the king's service.

The good minister of Netherwood, and the English rector on the south
side of the Border, frequently besought Sir Basil to be merciful to
the orphan child of his eldest son.

"I pray you to recollect, Sir Basil," urged the rosy-faced rector,
"that your own marriage was a love-match."

"It must have been so, if all you scandalous fellows at Oxford said
truth."

"Why?"

"For there you said I loved the whole female sex."

The jolly rector laughed so much at the poor jest of the old rake,
that the latter actually became commiserate; or it may be that my
mother's death and my utter desolation, stirred some emotion of
shame--pity he had none--in Sir Basil's arid heart; so, to keep me at
a distance from himself, he consigned me on a pittance to the care of
his country agent, a certain Mr. Nathan Wylie, who was exceedingly
well-named, as he was a canting Scotch lawyer--in truth "a cunning
wretch whose shrivelled heart was dead to every human feeling," and
who by the sharpness of his legal practice was a greater terror on
both sides of the Border than ever the mosstroopers were of old.

He was the person who had prepared and executed the will which
transferred my heritage to my cousin, Tony Gauntlet--a will which he
framed with peculiar satisfaction, as he hated my father for making
free with his orchard in boyhood, and in later years for laying a
horsewhip across his shoulders at the market-cross of Greenlaw, so in
his sanctified dwelling I was likely to have a fine time of it!

For ten years I resided with the godly Nathan Wylie, a repining
drudge, ill-fed, ill-clad, and poorly lodged, in one of those attics
which he apportioned to Abraham Clod, his groom, his pigeons and
myself--uncared for by all; and not unfrequently taunted with the
misfortunes of my parents for whom I sorrowed, and the neglect of my
grandfather whom I had learned to abhor and regard with boyish terror.

I picked up a little knowledge of law--at least such knowledge as one
might learn in the office of a Scotch country agent in those days.  I
mastered, I believe, even "Dirlton's Doubts," and other equally
amusing literature then in vogue; while Nathan Wylie took especial
care that I should know all the shorter catechism, and other biblical
questions by rote, that I might be able to repeat them when the
minister paid us his periodical visit, though my elbows were
threadbare, my shoes none of the best, and my eyes and brain ached
with drudging at the desk far into the hours of the silent night,
penning prosy documents, preparing endless processes, and not
unfrequently writing to dictation such an epistle as the following,
which I give _verbatim_ as it actually appeared in a Border paper:--


"DEAR SIR,--I am directed to raise an action against you to-morrow
for the sum of one penny, together with the additional sum of three
shillings and fourpence, sterling, the expense of this notice, if
both sums be not paid me before 9 a.m.

  "Yours, faithfully in the Lord,
      "NATHAN WYLIE.

"To Farmer Flail, &c."


In early life he had married an old and equally devout female client
for the money which he knew well she possessed; and as that was all
he wanted, after her death he never married again, but devoted
himself manfully to the practice of the law and extempore prayer--an
external air of great sanctity being rather conducive to success in
life in too many parts of Scotland.

Poor Nathan has long been laid six feet under the ground; but in
fancy I can still see before me his thin figure, with rusty black
suit and spotless white cravat; his sharp visage, with keen,
restless, and cat-like eyes, that peered through a pair of horn
spectacles, and with shaggy brows that met above them.  Moreover, he
had hollow temples, coarse ears, and a tiger-like jaw, which he
always scratched vigorously when a case perplexed him, or with
satisfaction when some hapless client was floored in the field of
legal strife.

As years stole on, that keen and honest sense of justice, which a boy
seldom fails to feel, inspired me with indignation at the neglect
with which my family treated me, and the story of my parents and
their fate redoubled my hatred to my oppressors.

My cousin Tony, a harebrained fool, whose mad fox-hunting adventures
formed the theme of all the Border side, and who, by my grandfather's
lavish and misplaced generosity, was enabled to pursue a career of
prodigality and extravagance, came in for a full share of my
animosity, for he was wont to ride past me on the highway without the
slightest recognition, save once, when, flushed with wine, he was
returning from a hunting-dinner.

On that occasion he was ungenerous enough to draw the attention of
his groom and whipper-in to the somewhat dilapidated state of my
attire, as I was trudging along the highway on some legal message to
Farmer Flail at the Woodland Grange.

On hearing their derisive laughter, my heart swelled with suppressed
passion, and had a weapon been in my hand, I had struck them all from
their saddles.

This crushing existence was not the glorious destiny my boyish
ambition had pictured; but what could I do for a time, save submit?
I had none to guide me--nor father, nor mother, nor kindred were
there; and as a child, I often gazed wistfully at other children who
_had_ all these, and marvelled in my lonely heart what manner of love
they had for one another.

I was conscious of possessing a fund of affection, of kindness and
goodwill in my own bosom; but there it remained pent up for lack of
an object whereon to lavish it, or rather it was thrust back upon me
by the repulsive people by whom I was surrounded.

Business over, I would rush away to solitude.  Sunk in reveries,
vague and deep, I would stroll for hours alone in the starlight along
the green and shady lanes, or by the silent shore, where the German
sea rolled its creamy waves in ceaseless and monotonous succession on
the shingles, or from whence it rippled in the splendour of the
moonlight far away--reveries filled less with vain regrets than with
visions of a brilliant future, for my heart was young, inspired by
hope and thoughts that soared above my present condition, and sought
a brighter destiny!

I could remember a time--alas! it seemed a dream to me now--when I
used to repose in a pretty little bed, and when a lady, who must have
been my mother, pale and thin and gentle-eyed, and richly-attired
too, for her satin dress rustled, and her presence had a sense of
perfume, was wont to draw back the curtains of silk and white lace to
caress and to kiss me.  Once a tear fell on my cheek--it was hot--and
she brushed it aside with a tress of her gathered hair.

Was all this a reality, or a dream?  I strove to conjure up when and
where I had seen this; but the memory of it was wavering, and so
indistinct, that at times the treasured episode seemed to fade away
altogether.

In the long nights of winter I saved up my candles--no easy task in
the house of a miser like Nathan Wylie--and, retreating to my attic,
read far into the hours of morning; poring over such novels and
romances as were lent me by the village milliner, a somewhat romantic
old maiden, who had been jilted by a recruiting officer, and for
whose memory she always shed a scanty tear, for he fell at the
bombardment of Carthagena.  These books I read by stealth, such
literature being deemed trash and dangerous profanity in the godly
mansion of Nathan Wylie.

Then when the wind, that tore down the rocky ravines of the Cheviots,
howled in the chimneys, or shook the rafters above me, I loved to
fancy myself at sea, for the life of a sailor seemed to embody all my
ideas of perfect freedom--a bold buccaneer, like Sir Henry Morgan--a
voyager, like Drake or Dampier--a conqueror, like Hawke or
Boscawen--a wanderer, like dear old Robinson Crusoe, or worthy Philip
Quarll; and then I went to sleep and to dream of foreign lands, of
lovely isles full of strange trees and wondrous flowers, where scaly
serpents crawled, and spotted tigers lurked; of cities that were all
bannered towers, gilded cupolas and marble temples, glittering in the
sunshine far beyond the sea.

A lonely child, I ripened into a lonely lad, and so passed my life,
until the coming of Ruth Wylie, an event which fully deserves a
chapter to itself.



CHAPTER II.

RUTH WYLIE.

Love occasioned my first scrape in life, and thus it came to pass.

About the period of my aimless existence, detailed in the last
chapter, the mansion of Mr. Nathan Wylie received a new, and to him,
in no way welcome inmate, in the person of an orphan niece from
London, the daughter of a brother who had died in circumstances the
reverse of affluent, bequeathing this daughter--then in her sixteenth
year--to his care.

This brother's letter--one penned on his death-bed in an agony of
anxiety for the _future_ of his orphan Ruth--was deeply touching in
its simple tenor; and some of the references therein to years that
had long passed away, and to the pleasant days of their boyhood,
should have been more than enough to soften even the heart of Nathan
Wylie; but he read it unmoved, with a grimace on his thin mouth and
his beetle brows knit.

Then he carefully folded and docketed it among others, with a gleam
of irritation in his cat-like eyes; and equally unmoved by sympathy
or compassion did he receive his charge, when she arrived by the
stagecoach from London, pale with sorrow, weary with travel, and clad
in cheap and simple mourning for the father she had lost.

One generally imagines a Ruth to be solemn, demure, and
quiet--something between a little nun and a Quakeress; but Ruth Wylie
sorely belied her name, being a merry, kind, and affectionate girl,
with bewitching dark eyes, full of fun and waggery, especially when
uncle Nathan was absent, for she failed to conceal that his hard,
short, and dry manner, and his cold, immoveable visage chilled and
saddened her.

New and strange thoughts came into my mind now; and soon I conceived
a regard for Ruth, notwithstanding her hideous relation, the lawyer;
for to me old Nathan was a bugbear--an ogre!

Despite his angry and reiterated injunctions, she frequently brought
her workbasket or book into the room where we plodded with our pens,
day after day, for she loved companionship, and Nathan's churlish old
housekeeper bored her.

Then sometimes, when we would be writing, and she was sewing or
reading near us, I might pause, for irresistible was the temptation
to turn to the soft and downcast face of Ruth; and it was strange
that however deeply interested in her book--however anxious about her
needlework, by some hidden or magnetic influence, she, at the same
time paused, and raised her eyelids with a bright inquiring smile,
that never failed to thrill my heart with joy, to make my hand
tremble, and every pulse to quicken, as our glances instantly met and
were instantly withdrawn.

"Here is a little bit of romance at last!" thought I; "already our
thoughts and aspirations draw towards each other."

So I resolved to fall in love--most desperately in love with Ruth
Wylie--and did so accordingly.

In the full bloom of girlhood, she was at an age when all girls are
pretty, or may pass for being so; but Ruth was indeed charming!

She had very luxuriant hair of a colour between brown and bright
auburn; its tresses were wavy rather than curly, and her complexion
was of the dazzling purity which generally accompanies hair of that
description, while her eyes were dark, and their lashes black as
night.

Our residence in the same house brought us constantly together, and
my love ripened with frightful rapidity.  In three days my case was
desperate, and Ruth alone could cure it.  I was sleepless by
night--feverish and restless by day; yet I dared scarcely to address
Ruth, for love fills the heart of a boy with timidity.

On the other hand, it endues a girl with courage, and so Ruth talked
to me gaily, laughed and rallied me, while my tongue faltered, my
cheek flushed or grew pale, and my heart ached with love and new-born
joy.

There is a strange happiness in the first love of a boy and girl--the
magnetic sympathy which draws heart to heart, and lip to lip, in
perfect innocence, and without a thought of the future, or of the
solemn obligations of life, and of the world--the weary world, which,
with all its conventionalities, is more a clog to us than we to it.

However, I soon perceived that Ruth changed colour, too, when we met;
and my heart leaped joyously, when playfully she kissed her hand to
me at parting.  I felt that I loved her dearly and deeply, but how
was I to tell her so?

In all the romances lent to me by my friend, the milliner, the tall
and handsome heroes, cast their plumed beavers and ample mantles on
the ground, and flung themselves on their knees before their
mistresses, beseeching them, in piercing accents, to make them the
happiest of men, by giving them even the tips of their snowy fingers
to kiss; but I lacked the courage to imitate these striking
proceedings; moreover, I possessed neither velvet mantle nor ostrich
plume.

One evening, old Nathan was absent on business, and Ruth and I were
seated in the recess of a window, looking at a collection of
Hogarth's prints.  We sat close, very close together, for the window
was narrow, and then the volume was so large that we both required to
hold it.  I felt Ruth's breath at times upon my cheek, and our hands
touched every time we turned a leaf.

Her pretty bosom, that heaved beneath her bodice, which was cut
square at the neck, and somewhat low in front; her snow-white arms,
that came tapering forth from the loose falling sleeves of her black
dress, and her delicate little hands so bewildered me, that I never
saw the prints with which we were supposed to be engrossed.  I saw
Ruth--Ruth only, and felt all the joy her presence inspired.

I knew that we both spoke at random, and were somewhat confused in
our questions and answers; still more confused in our long pauses.  I
would have given the world to have clasped this plump little Ruth to
my breast; yet I dared scarcely to touch her hand.

As we stooped over the print of "Love à la Mode," her bent head, her
white temple, and rich soft hair touched mine, and she did not
withdraw.

For a few seconds we sat thus, head reclined against head; then I
panted rather than breathed, as my arm stole round her waist, and my
trembling lips were pressed upon her pure forehead.

Mr. William Hogarth was permitted to fall ignominiously on the
carpet; and we sat thus entwined in each other's arms for a long
time--I know not how long--till the twilight deepened round us, and
we were roused from our dream of happiness by a harsh and croaking
voice, which exclaimed:

"Fool that I am, not to have foreseen this!"

We started and found ourselves confronted by Mr. Nathan Wylie, whose
grey eyes glared in the dusk like those of a polecat, through the
rims of his horn spectacles.

Poor Ruth uttered a cry and fled; but I turned boldly and faced the
enemy.

"So, sir," he exclaimed, in a voice that trembled with silly rage;
"so, sir, this is the way you conduct yourself in the house of a
God-fearing man, who has saved you from destruction, when your whole
family abandoned you!  Is this your gratitude, Master Philander--this
the result of those pious lessons which I have sought to instil into
you?  But hark you, sirrah, so sure as I stand here--

"Mr. Wylie," I began, with all the coolness I could assume; "I beg
that you----"

"Peace, you young villain, and don't attempt to bully me!" he
thundered out; but, immediately adopting his usual whining tone, he
added: "Peace I say, for I stand here as a rampart between you and
destruction--as a watchman unto Israel.  But what virtue or honour,
piety or morality am I likely to find in one who bears the name of
Basil Gauntlet?  After what I have seen to-night, Ruth shall remain a
prisoner in her own room, and I must consult with your grandfather
about having you sent off to sea, or away from here on any terms."

This would have been welcome intelligence some time ago; but the
presence of Ruth had altered the aspect of everything, and I retired
to my attic, less to ponder over the rough manner in which we had
been wakened from our dream of joy, than to repeat, react and dream
it over and over again, with the sweet conviction that Ruth permitted
me to love her, and loved me in return.



CHAPTER III.

THE SEQUEL.

Nathan Wylie was as wicked as his word; and a letter, rehearsing in
forcible terms my sinful, ungracious, and godless conduct, was duly
despatched to my grandfather, at Netherwood Hall.

Pending a reply thereto, Ruth was confined to her own room, and kept
securely under lock and key, while I was all but chained to my desk,
for Nathan Wylie had an old dread of the enterprising nature of the
Gauntlets, and knew not what I might do next.

In our mutual loneliness of position, our hearts naturally drew
together, and our love was strengthened by the very barriers her
uncle raised between us; hence I resolved to see Ruth in her own
room--her prison it seemed to me; but this could only be done by the
window, and under cloud of night, as her door was locked, and the key
was in old Wylie's pocket.

On coming to this resolution, I proceeded at once to put it in
practice.  Heaven knows, I had no desire but to circumvent old Wylie,
and to see my pretty Ruth--to hear her gentle voice, and to be with
her, for her smile was the first ray of light that had fallen across
my hitherto dark and solitary path.

It was on a gloomy night, early in February, and when the little
household were supposed to be all in bed, that by slipping from the
window of my attic, I reached the roof of the stable, the ridge of
which I knew to be immediately under the window-sill of Ruth's
apartment.

My heart beat lightly, happily, and rapidly, when I saw the shadow of
Ruth's figure thrown in a somewhat colossal outline, however, upon
the curtains; and, fortunately, without disturbing Abraham Clod, the
groom, I reached the window, before Ruth had either retired to rest
or extinguished her light.

I know that this clandestine visit was rather a wrong proceeding; but
in extenuation I have only to plead the rashness of youth on one
hand, and Nathan Wylie's severity on the other; besides, at eighteen
one does not value the opinion of the world much, or scan such
matters too closely.

On peeping in I saw Ruth pinning up her bright brown hair, and
beginning to unfasten the hooks of her bodice; then her dimpled
elbows and tapered arms shone white as alabaster in the light of her
candle; so I hastened to tap on the window.

"Good Heaven!" she exclaimed, starting round with alarm expressed in
her pretty face, and her dark eyes dilated; "what is that--who is
there?"

"I, I--don't you know me?" said I, with my nose flattened against a
pane of glass.

"Basil--is it Basil?"

"Yes."

"At my window, and at this time of night!" said she, blushing and
hastening forward to open the sash; "wait until I get a shawl--I was
just about to undress.  How very odd; but what do you want?"

"To see you--to speak with you--"

"But, Basil, consider----" said she, trembling.

"I consider nothing," I exclaimed, throwing my arms round her, and
kissing her at the window.

"Mercy! take care lest you fall."

"This separation renders me miserable; for two whole days I have not
seen you."

Her kiss, so tender and loving, agitated me so deeply that my voice
was almost inarticulate.

"And mewed up here, I have been so wretched too, dear Basil," she
murmured, while placing her arms caressingly round my neck, as I
crept in and closed the window; "how cruel of uncle Nathan to treat
us so."

"He has written to my grandfather, and in such harsh terms that more
mischief will be in store for me," said I, bitterly.

"Take courage, dear Basil," whispered Ruth, as we sat with our arms
entwined and cheek pressed against flushing cheek; "those wicked
people would seem to have done you already all the harm that is
possible."

"I know not; for your uncle spoke of having me sent to sea; and I
have heard at times of people being kidnapped by the pressgang."

"The pressgang--you!" exclaimed Ruth, her fine eyes filling with pity
and indignation; "they dare not think of such a thing.  Are you not
the heir to a baronetcy?"

"True--one of our oldest Nova Scotian baronetcies; but so is my
cousin Tony, if--if----"

"What?"

"I were sent out of the way or disposed of for ever."

"Of that title, dearest Basil; neither your grandfather's wicked
hatred, nor the cunning of my uncle--alas! that I should have to say
so of one so near--can deprive you."

"Between them, however, they have willed away the estates to my
cousin Tony Gauntlet, who bids fair to make ducks and drakes of them,
even before his succession comes to pass, for he is deeply involved
with jockeys and Jew money-lenders.  But I care not what happens, if
I am not separated, my sweet little love, from you."

I pressed her to my breast long and passionately.

For several nights I visited Ruth's window in this clandestine
manner; and became so expert in the matter, that I actually rubbed
the sash of my casement with soap, that it might run smoothly and
noiselessly.  As yet there came no reply from Sir Basil, but Abraham
Clod brought a message from Netherwood, that "he had the gout in both
feet, and consequently was unable to write."

Dear to us, indeed, were those stolen interviews, and wild and vague
were the plans we began to form for the future, plans chiefly drawn
from our romances; but one night we were roused from our happiness by
an unlooked for catastrophe.

Just as I was approaching Ruth's window, a voice exclaimed--

"A thief--a thief!  I see un--dang thee, tak that!"

Then followed a shriek from Ruth, with the explosion of a gun, and a
bullet shattered the panes in both sashes, just above my head.

It was the voice of Abraham Clod our Yorkshire groom, who had been
out in the evening crowshooting, and had his gun undischarged, and
who in a moment of evil had seen me creeping along the roof of the
stable, from his attic window, where I saw him peering forth, with a
candle in one hand, and his gun in the other.

Fearing that if I attempted to return to my own room he might shoot
me in earnest--for I saw the fellow was quickly reloading--fearing
also to stay, lest I should place Ruth in a false position, I
lingered for a moment irresolutely, and preferred being taken for the
housebreaker which I have no doubt honest Clod believed me to be.

At that time I felt that I would rather die than the honour of Ruth
should suffer!

I dropped on the roof of the stable just as a second shot broke the
tiles under my feet, and confused by this incident, I tumbled heavily
to the ground--luckily not into the stable-yard but into a ploughed
field.

I rose unhurt, but found that to enter the house by the door, and to
regain my attic window, were both impossible now.  I struck across
the fields, gained the high-road, and took my way into the open
country with sorrow and rage in my heart--sorrow for Ruth, and rage
at her uncle, whose drudge and fool I resolved no longer to be.



CHAPTER IV.

MY COUSIN TONY.

"Under the roof of his home," says a pleasing writer, "the boy feels
_safe_; and where in the whole realm of life, with its bitter toils
and its bitterer temptations, will he ever feel _safe_ again?"

I had no roof-tree--I had never felt this charming safety or
security--this sublime knowledge of home, and keenly came this
conviction to my heart, as I walked on that dark February night along
the solitary highway, with the rain plashing in my face; for now, as
if to add to the misery of my situation, the clouds had gathered in
heaven and the rain fell heavily.

An old fir-tree with its thick dark foliage sheltered me for a time.
Towards daybreak the weather became fair, and after sleeping for some
hours in a hayrick, I set forward again.  I knew that I must present
but a sorry figure, but cared not.  I was always a lover of effect,
and hoped it might aid me in my purpose, which was to urge Sir Basil
to make some fitting provision for me.

Alas!  I was ignorant that he had actually written to Nathan Wylie,
desiring that the pittance allowed me should be withdrawn, and that
he was to turn me adrift for ever.  The old minister of Netherwood,
who was with him when this severe answer was despatched, besought him
to "be clement, and to remember that he too had once been young."

"Yes," growled the gruff baronet, "but it is so very long ago that I
have forgotten all about it.  Zounds!" he added, flourishing his
crutch, and smashing a wine decanter, "I'll make that young dog smart
for this, as I made his father smart before him!"

His orders Mr. Nathan Wylie would cheerfully have obeyed; but in the
end I may show how the lawyer, even in the matter of the will,
_outwitted himself_, as he might, but for his hatred of my father's
memory, and his slavish obsequiousness to Sir Basil, have made little
Ruth one day Lady of Netherwood, and me, perhaps, his friend for ever.

On that dull February eve I knew nothing of all this, and so trod on
for several miles with hope in my breast--hope that I might stir some
chord of sympathy in the withered heart of Sir Basil; but when I drew
near Netherwood, and saw its copper vanes and antique turrets shining
above the trees, my spirit failed me, and I thought with just
indignation of my favoured cousin Tony, of his probable mockery at
the sorry figure I presented, and the quiet insolence of the
domestics; so I sat by the wayside inspired only by that bitterness
and irresolution which I have described in the opening of my story.

To Nathan Wylie's house I would never return.

I sorrowed for poor Ruth, the sweet companion of so many stolen
interviews--the secret love of my boyish heart.  But to what end was
this sorrow?  Marriage and the responsibilities of life had never
occurred to me.  I felt, like a boy, that I loved Ruth dearly, and
that was all.

I would go away somewhere--where, it mattered not; I would seek a
path for myself; another time--a year hence, perhaps--I would come
back and see Ruth again, if Fortune smiled on me.  And with such
thoughts as these, my sadness and dejection gave place to the springy
and joyous conviction of a young heart--that I was free--absolutely
FREE--the master of my own person--the arbiter of my own destiny!

The wide world was all before me, and to leave care and trouble
behind should be now my task and duty.

How was this to be achieved?  I was the possessor only of a shilling;
but greater men than I have begun the world with less.

As these ideas occurred to me, I perceived in the twilight a
gentleman with two valets in livery, all well mounted, coming along
the road with their nags at a trot.  He wore a green sporting suit,
with large gilt buttons, yellow buckskin breeches, a jockey cap, and
carried a heavy hunting-whip.

As the two valets were not riding behind, but were abreast with their
master, and conversing with him in loud and noisy familiarity, I soon
recognised my cousin Tony the Foxhunter, an interview with whom I
would fain have avoided; but he knew me at once, and came brusquely
up, checking his horse, with foam upon its bit, so close to me, that
I was nearly knocked over.

"Zounds, cousin Basil!" said he, insolently, and in the hearing of
his valets, "you are in a fine scrape now!"

"How, sir?" said I, sourly.

"So you have levanted from old Wylie's--or been turned adrift--'tis
all one, for making love to his niece--eh--is this true?"

"I have no confidences to make to you, sir," said I, haughtily, for
the idea that I had placed Ruth--she so innocent and pure--in a
position so false, filled me with remorse and rage.

"No confidences," stammered Tony; "eh--damme?"

"None."

"Oh, it is of no use denying it; we have just ridden from old Wylie's
this morning.  We don't blame you for making love to the girl--she is
deuced pretty, and we all agreed it was just what we should have done
ourselves."

"_We_--who do you speak of?"

"Why, Tom, Dick, and myself," he replied, pointing to his servants;
"and no bad judges either of the points and paces of a woman or a
horse."

"Rein back from the footpath if you please, Mr. Gauntlet, and permit
me to pass," I added, for he had me completely hemmed against a hedge.

"Well, but what are you going, to do _now_, for we can have no
onhangers idling about Netherwood Hall?" he exclaimed, imperiously.

Instead of replying, I took his horse by the bridle, thrust its head
aside, and passed disdainfully on, for I saw that he had been dining,
and was flushed alike with wine and insolence.  Anthony was four
years older than I, and had seen much more of the world; yet, so far
as education or accomplishments were concerned, this pet of my
grandfather was nearly as ignorant as the grooms and stable-boys who
were his constant companions and chosen friends, and who, in those
capacities, fleeced him of large sums on the turf, in the tavern, and
at the gaming-table.

"Did you hear me speak, fellow?" he thundered out, with an oath,
while urging his horse close behind me, as if to ride me down.

Instead of turning, I quickened my pace; but he and his grooms put
spur to their nags and followed me.

"S'blood!" exclaimed Tony, "but this will make you _feel_ if you
cannot hear me!" and he dealt me a heavy lash across the shoulders
with his hunting-whip.

With all the strength and fury that a long sense of unmerited wrong,
hardship, neglect, and opprobrium could inspire, I rushed upon this
usurper of my patrimony, and in a moment he was torn from his saddle
and stretched upon the highway.  I wrenched away his whip, and,
twisting the lash round my wrist, beat him soundly with the handle.

Being stronger than I, he scrambled up, with his green coat covered
with dust and his features inflamed by rage; he closed with me,
swearing frightfully, while his two mounted followers assailed me in
the rear with their clubbed whips.

"Lay on, Dick! lay on, Tom!" he cried repeatedly; "d--n him, beat the
beggarly rascal's brains out!"

I received several severe blows on the head and shoulders, while Tony
actually strove to strangle me by twisting my necktie; and in a
combat so unequal I must have been defeated and severely handled in
the end, had not two men who were clad in long scarlet cloaks, and
were mounted on grey horses, interposed, and one who had drawn his
sword, exclaimed--

"Hold, fellows, hold!  What the devil do you mean--is it murder?
Back! on your lives, stand back!  Why this cowardly attack of three
upon one?"

On this the valets precipitately withdrew a little way; but Tony
still grasped my collar, and on perceiving by their dress and
accoutrements that the interposers were two Horse Grenadiers or
Dragoons, he swore at them roundly, and said--

"What value do you put upon your ears that you dare to accost me upon
the highway?"

"Dare?" repeated the soldier, contemptuously.

"Yes, dare!" exclaimed my cousin, foaming with rage.  "Be off with
you.  Do you imagine that a scurvy trooper can scare me?  I am
Anthony Gauntlet of Netherwood Hall, and in the commission of the
peace for this county; so begone I say, or d--n me I'll put you both
in the stocks at the nearest market cross."

The dragoon laughed, and placed the bare blade of his sword so close
to Tony's neck that he hastily released me and slunk back.

"If you are what you say, sir," observed the other dragoon, with a
singular hauteur in his tone and manner, "a justice of the peace, you
should not be brawling thus with people on the king's highway."

"Rascal, to whom do you presume to give advice, eh?" roared Tony,
choking with passion.

"Double rascal, to you!" thundered out the soldier, as he wrenched
away by a single twitch of his right hand one of the valets' whips,
and lashed Tony and his fellows so soundly, and with such rapidity,
that they scarcely knew whether they were on the highway or in the
air.

He fairly drove them off, while his comrade, who had now sheathed his
sword, sat in his saddle and laughed heartily as he looked on.

"Come with us, my lad," said he, "lest those cowardly curs return and
fall on you again.  There is an inn somewhere near this, I
believe--or at least there was when last we marched into England."

"Yes, you mean the 'Marquis of Granby,'" said I, while applying my
handkerchief to a cut on my left temple, which bled profusely.

"Ah! that is the place I mean; we must find our quarters there for
the night.  You will share a glass with us and tell us how this
battle came to pass?"

And to this invitation I assented.



CHAPTER V.

THE INN.

My protectors proved to be two of the Second Dragoons, or Scots
Greys--a corporal and a private--who had been escorting a couple of
prisoners, captured smugglers, to the Tolbooth of Dunbar, and who
were proceeding to rejoin their regiment, which was then quartered at
the nearest market town on the English side of the Border.

"Kirkton, what did that fellow with the jockey cap call himself?"
asked the corporal.

"I scarcely heard; but he said he was a justice of the peace."

"A rare one, certainly!  But he cannot meddle with us, Tom, for we
are on duty until we rejoin.  Why did he attack you, my lad?" asked
the corporal, turning to me; "were you poaching?"

"No," said I, angrily, though the state of my attire perfectly
warranted the inference; "but here is the inn."

It was a common wayside hostelry, where the Berwick stages changed
horses in those days--a two-storied house, with a large stable-yard
behind and an ivy-clad porch in front; over the latter hung a square
signboard that creaked in the wind on an iron rod, and bore a profile
of the Marquis of Granby in a bright red coat and white brigadier
wig, with the information beneath, that within was "good
entertainment for man and beast."

The landlord knit his brows and muttered something surly, under his
breath however, on seeing the two dragoons approach; but Jack
Charters, the corporal, presented a slip of printed paper, saying--

"How are you, old boy?  Here is our billet order."

"From whom?" growled Boniface.

"The billet master.  To-morrow it will be from a constable, but then
we shall be in England."

Perceiving that the host scowled at the document--

"It is quite correct, my dear friend," began the corporal, in a
bantering tone, "and quite in the terms of the Billeting Act, which
extends to all inns, livery stables, and houses of persons selling
brandy, strong waters, cider and metheglin, whatever the devil that
may be."

And then, laughing merrily, they rode straight into the stable-yard,
where they unsaddled, stalled and groomed their horses with
soldierlike rapidity, and taking care to stand by while each had its
feed of corn, for they knew too much of the world to trust to an
ostler's nice sense of honour.

Then we repaired to the bar of the inn, where the entrance of a
couple of dashing dragoons in braided uniforms and high bearskin
caps, with all their accoutrements rattling about them, created
somewhat of a sensation.

The rosy-cheeked barmaid smiled with pleasure, the plump landlady
curtsied twice, even the ungracious host pushed forward a couple of
chairs--I was permitted to find one for myself--and several bumpkins
took their long clay pipes from their mouths, and gazed with
admiration, for the appearance of two scarlet coats in this peaceful
quarter of Great Britain was quite an epoch in its history.

"Bustle, landlady, if you please," said the corporal, "and get us
something to eat by way of supper."

"Supper for three," added the private, with a quick glance at me;
"nay, no refusal, my lad," he added, interrupting some apology I was
about to make, with an empty purse, an aching heart, and a burning
cheek; "many a time I have known the pleasure of supping, yea, and
dining too, at a friend's expense."

These dragoons were men who had an air, bearing, and tone far above
their subordinate rank in the service, and there was a mystery about
this that could not fail to interest me.

They were both bold and handsome fellows, with eyes that looked
steadily at men, and saucily at women; slashing troopers, with long
strides, huge spurs, and steel scabbards that made a terrible
jingling.

The corporal pinched the landlady's chin, and then gave the landlord
a slap on the back which nearly made him swallow a foot-length of his
clay pipe, as they seated themselves.

"For shame!" said the barmaid, as our enterprising non-commissioned
officer slipped an arm round her waist; "I fear you are a very bad
fellow."

"I would rather be that than a sad fellow," said he; "but get us
supper quick, my pretty one; we have had a long ride on a cold
February day; but pray don't make a fuss, my dear--for me at least; I
have long been used to take the world as it comes."

The landlord, who had not yet digested his mouthful of pipe,
grumbled, as if to say that "private soldiers were not the kind of
quests they were used to make a fuss about;" but he dared not speak
aloud, for the aspect of his two unexpected visitors rather awed him,
and the female portion of the household were all in their favour.

A piece of roasted beef, cold, some bread, and the materials for
manufacturing whisky toddy, were rapidly laid for us within a snug
recess that opened off the bar.  A large fire which blazed within the
wide arched fireplace, filled the whole apartment with a ruddy light,
that was reflected from scores of plates in a rack, and rows of
polished tin and pewter mugs and tankards; but I selected a seat that
was in shadow, for Farmer Flail, who was seated in an arm-chair close
by, and had wakened up at the noise of our entrance, had dozed off to
sleep, and I had no wish to be recognised if he awoke again.
Although I was scarcely a mile from the avenue of Netherwood, old
Roger Flail was the only person in that district who knew me.

"The last time I was in this quarter, a strange affair happened,"
said the corporal.

"How?" I inquired.

"Our chaplain fought a duel."

"A duel--your chaplain?"

"Yes--with a cornet of Eland's Horse."

"About some point of scripture?"

"About a pretty girl, and the poor cornet was run through the body,
and left dead, near the gate of a hall--Netherwood, I think 'tis
called."

"Were you in the Greys, then?" I inquired.

"No--I was in the Dragoon Guards, and I had _not_ the honour to be a
corporal," he replied, while a dark expression stole over his
handsome and sunburnt face.

"Have you seen service?" I asked.

The troopers laughed.

"Seen service!" repeated the corporal; "I have seen everything--the
devil himself, I believe; but we have both smelt powder in Flanders,
and hope to do so soon again.  Another slice of the beef, my boy?  No
more, you say?  At your age, I could have eaten a horse behind the
saddle."

I begged to be excused; I had but little appetite.

"I hope you can drink, at all events," said Tom Kirkton, the private,
pushing the jug of hot water and the whisky bottle towards me; "make
your brewage and be jolly while you may."

Then while stirring his steaming punch, in a lull, deep, manly voice,
he began to sing, while the corporal clanked his spurs and clinked
his glass in tune to the favourite camp song of the day.

    "How stands the glass around?
  For shame, ye take no care, my boys!
    How stands the glass around?
    Let mirth and wine abound!
    The trumpets sound,
  And the colours flying are, my boys,
    To fight, kill, or wound;
    May we still be found,
  Content with our hard fare, my boys,
    On the cold ground!

    "Why, soldiers, why
  Should we be melancholy, boys?
    Why, soldiers, why,
    Whose business 'tis to die?
    What, sighing?--fie!
  Shun fear, drink on, be jolly, boys!
    'Tis he, you, or I,
    Cold, hot, wet, or dry,
  We're always bound to follow, boys,
    And scorn to fly.

    "'Tis but in vain
  (I mean not to upbraid you, boys)
    'Tis but in vain
    For soldiers to complain;
    Should next campaign,
  Send us to HIM who made us, boys,
    We're free from pain;
    But should we remain,
  A bottle and kind landlady
    Cures all again."


As he concluded, Kirkton kissed the hostess, and ordered another
bottle.

"When I was in the Dragoon Guards, at the siege of Maastricht," said
the corporal, with something sad in his tone, "six of us sang that
song one night in my tent; before the noon of next day, there was but
one alive of all the six--myself--who could better have been spared."

"You look downcast, my lad," said Kirkton to me.

"Ay," added the corporal; "what is the matter? have you done aught
that is likely to make you seek a healthier atmosphere?"

"Don't jibe the poor fellow, Jack," said the other on perceiving a
flush of annoyance cross my face.

"Is love at the bottom of it?"

"See how he reddens--of course it is."

"You mistake," said I, with a bitter sigh; "my funds are at _zero_."

"Is that all?" observed the corporal, laughing; "mine have been so
many times, for Fortune is a fickle wench; but, egad! the dice-box, a
little prize money, a present from a pretty woman, or something else,
always made the silver rise again to blood heat.  Well--and so your
purse is empty?"

"As you see--there is but a shilling in it."

"When mine was thus, I took another in the king's name, and then I
had _two_--by that stroke I exactly doubled my fortune.  What is your
profession?"

"I have none."

"Relations?"

"Yes," I replied, flushing to the temples with anger.

"Friends, I should have said."

"None."

"Right!" exclaimed Corporal Charters, bitterly; "friends and
relations are often very different people."

"Come," added Kirkton, "be one of us--you are just a lad after old
Preston's heart."

"Old Preston--who is he?"

"Zounds, man! don't you know?  He is Colonel of the Greys--our idol!
we all love the old boy as if he was our father--and a father he is
indeed to the whole regiment.  Come, then, I say, be one of us--the
lads who are second to none."

"_Second to none!_" echoed the corporal, draining his glass with
enthusiasm, for this is yet the proud motto of his regiment; "you
have still your brave heart, boy--the king will give you a sword, and
you will ride with us against the French as a Scots Grey dragoon."

The fumes of the potent alcohol I was imbibing had already mounted to
my head; the idea of becoming a soldier had frequently occurred to
me, and these troopers had only anticipated a proposal I was about to
make them.

"I will--I will!" I exclaimed, and gave each my hand upon the
promise.  Another jorum of punch was ordered, and long before it was
finished, I found myself wearing the corporal's grenadier cap and
aiguilettes, girded with his comrade's sword and belt, seated on the
table, and singing most lustily, I know not what.

Then I thought of Ruth, and becoming sad related to them my love
affair, at which they shocked me very much by laughing loudly, and
for their own amusement made me describe her hair, eyes, hands and
voice again and again, as I had drunk too deeply to perceive how they
quizzed me.  However after a time, it seemed to me, that they too
became maudlin, as they rehearsed several of their tender experiences.

"There was a time," said the Corporal, "when I too imagined I could
love a girl for ever."

"For ever is a long time, Jack!"

"I still love with ardour--"

"For a day," suggested Kirkton, and then he added, with a tipsy air
of sentimental sadness, "love sheds a halo over everything, and
brings us nearer heaven."

"Indeed!  By Jove, it nearly sent me the _other_ way once, and almost
brought me to a General Court Martial."

"Oh--you mean your scrape with--"

"The countess--yes--but silence on that matter, Tom," replied the
corporal, whose face flushed, and he gave a bitter smile.

There was a pause during which, though very tipsy.  I surveyed him
with interest, for every line of his face expressed stern loftiness,
and then something of sadness and mortification.

"Well--well," said Kirkton, "drink and forget."

"No--no more for me, and you, Tom, have had quite enough."

"Bah! another glass--for sobriety, there is not my equal in the
service--in the Greys most certainly--"

    "How stands the glass around?
  For shame, ye take no care, my boys!"


Of this night I remember no more, than falling asleep--I am ashamed
to say--across the table, during Kirkton's song, completely overcome
by what I had imbibed; and thus ended the first episode of my new
career.



CHAPTER VI.

ENLISTMENT.

Early morning brought sobriety, with a headache, a burning thirst,
and deep reflection.

I had enlisted as a private dragoon: I, the heir to a baronetcy; but
it was a baronetcy that would not bring with it an acre of land, and
by the enmity of its present possessors, I was then on the verge of
total want.  What other path was open to me than this, which it
seemed as if the hand of destiny now indicated?

"Yes--yes," thought I, "it is the _dictum_ of fate!"

My position had been one of extreme difficulty.  I could not dig, and
to beg--even from Sir Basil--I was ashamed; besides, I had a spirit
that revolted at the idea of eating bread that was won either by
falsehood or servility.

"'Tis done!" said I, thinking aloud, "in the plain red coat of a
trooper, none will ever discover Basil Gauntlet--the disinherited
heir of Nether wood!"

"So you are still resolved to be one of us?" said Charters, when we
met early in the morning.

"Yes."

"'Tis well; life is a lottery--let us go and draw," he observed,
figuratively.

"I would rather go and drink," added Kirkton, who, after our late
potations, looked rather red about the eyes.

"Try a dram--and then hey for the road; but we must have our new
comrade attested.  Landlord, where is a justice of the peace to be
found?"

"Plague on them--they're thick as blackberries on both sides o' the
Border," growled the host.

"For one, there is Nathan Wylie, the writer at--" began the hostess.

"No--no--I go not before _him_!" said I, with a pang of sorrow in my
heart, as I thought of Ruth, whose sweet image came upbraidingly to
my memory.

"Well--who next?" asked the corporal, while buckling on his sword.

"Sir Basil Gauntlet, at the hall--or his nephew, the young Laird that
is to be."

"Worse still!" I exclaimed, passionately; "I shall not go before them
either."

"Zounds, but you are hard to please," said Charters as he eyed me
keenly, but with something of commiseration too.  "What is your name?"

"That I shall tell the magistrate," I replied, evasively, not having
yet thought of a _nom de guerre_.  Then the corporal asked me--

"Is this Sir Basil a relation, a connection, or what?"

The landlord laughed while eyeing my scurvy appearance, as if he
thought it very unlikely I could be either; my breast burned with
suppressed mortification and rage, but I continued calmly,

"It matters little--I go not before him."

"You are regularly enlisted, my lad," said the corporal, soothingly,
"and must go before some one."

"Try the rector," said I.

"We have no rectors in Scotland," said the landlord, bluntly.

"Well, there is one over the Border, a few miles from this----"

"On the road to Rothbury--good," said Charters.

"He is a justice of the peace, and such a one!  Odsbud! he sent a
child, four years old, to hard labour for having a tame pheasant for
a pet."

"How?"

"As a poacher," added Boniface, with a rough malediction.

"Will _he_ do?" asked the Corporal.

"Yes," said I, briefly; "and now let us begone."

"Bravo!  Now, Kirkton--brandy and water--boot and saddle, and let us
be off.  Our new comrade shall share our horses alternately, for we
have nearly twenty miles to travel to-day before we reach
head-quarters."

As the troopers brought from the stable to the inn door their two
stately grey chargers, in all the trappings of a heavy dragoon
regiment, with saddle-cloth, scarlet valise, long holsters, powerful
bits, and chain bridles, an old horse that was passing, heavily laden
with the wares of an itinerant basket-maker, pricked up his ears, and
switched his short shorn tail, and seemed to eye us wistfully.

"That is an old trooper," said Kirkton; "by Jove, the poor animal
actually recognises our red coats, and, doubtless, his heart warms to
the colour.  Landlord, a feed of oats, and here is the money for
it--a feed of oats for the old nag-tailed trooper.  He has been a
heavy dragoon horse--see here are the white spots where the carbine
has galled him.  Well, well! it makes one sad to think that the
dashing horse, which has perhaps borne a brave fellow in many a
charge, which has fed from his hand, and slept beside him in the
bivouac, comes down to the sand cart and knacker's yard at last!"

"After all, his rider's fate is seldom better in the end," said the
corporal, "and I don't think either you or I, Tom, will have our
tombs in Westminster Abbey.  But bring the brandy; confound care and
reflection; let us live while we can and be jolly, too!"

I rode each of their horses alternately after we crossed the Border,
as we proceeded southward, along the road towards the Rectory.

My comrades were rather silent now, and I was often left to my own
reflections.  The day was gloomy and lowering, and the wind came in
gusts; dark clouds rolled in masses across the grey, sullen sky; the
distant Cheviot hills looked brown and sombre; but nature's aspect
failed to impress me with gloom as on the preceding day.

I felt a glow of new enthusiasm kindling in my heart.  The hopes
inspired by ambition, pride, and all a boy's visions of military pomp
and glory, grew strong within me.  To wear a fine uniform--to ride a
showy horse--to be a captain in a year--to return to the village--to
marry Ruth--and to flaunt my finery before the people, were my most
prominent ideas.  A year?  Amid all this, I remembered that my
dashing comrade, Jack Charters, spoke of having been a soldier for
ten years, and was only a corporal still!

This was far from encouraging; but then I should be certain to prove
so much more sober, steady, and industrious than Jack; and so I rode
on scheming out my future career, with great brilliance and rapidity,
and much to my own satisfaction.

I was full of such thoughts when we reached the gate of the Rectory,
which was a quaint old building, having its deeply embayed and
mullioned windows nearly hidden by luxuriant masses of ivy, vine and
clematis.  It was small, and covered simply with bright yellow
thatch; but its walls were thick and strong, though they had often
been subjected to fire by the invading Scots, in the stormy times of
old.

We left the horses at the gothic porch, and, by a servant in livery,
were ushered into the library, where the Rector was seated at
luncheon, with a decanter of port before him, and he had been
evidently dozing over his books and papers.

To attest recruits at once, without the many formalities of medical
inspections and so forth, was common in those days, and for long
after.  Had it been otherwise, the public would never have been
favoured with the memoirs of Phœbe Hassel, who served seven years
in H. M. 5th Foot, or of Mrs. Christian Davis, another woman, who
served in all the battles of Marlborough, as a trooper in the Scots
Greys, who had her head fractured by the splinter of a shell at
Ramillies, and who enjoyed a pension of one shilling per diem till
she died, and was buried with military honours in the ground
belonging to Chelsea Hospital.*


* "Records of the Scots Greys," pp. 49-51.  Phœbe Hassel was alive
at Brighton in 1821.  She served in the West Indies, and at Gibraltar.


The Rector was a fine old gentleman, with a mild and rubicund visage;
and he had been, I knew, my father's early friend and schoolfellow;
so I resolved to enter the service under some such name as Smith or
Brown instead of my own.

He started from his waking dream as the two dragoons clattered in.  I
can still see, in memory, that quaint old library in which he
received us, with its dark oak shelves of goodly folios and quartos,
in calf bindings, dark and brown; some partial gleams of sunlight
streaming through the lozenged window panes and carved stone mullions
fell on the old man's shining head and scattered silver hairs--on the
floor of polished oak, on the furniture of walnut wood, and on the
russet tints that time had cast over everything.

"What bring you here, my friends--not a deserter--this boy?"
stammered the Rector, with sadness and pity in his eye and tone,
while wheeling his elbow chair half round.

"No, no, reverend sir, a recruit," replied Charters, with a military
salute; "a recruit whom we wish you to attest."

"That slender boy for the cavalry!" exclaimed the Rector.

"He will do excellently for the troop of light horse which Captain
Lindsay of ours is raising," suggested Kirkton.

I was then slightly formed, and looked, I knew, wan, dejected, and
poor.  The good rector surveyed me through his gold-rimmed spectacles
with an unmistakeable expression of pity on his benign and fatherly
face; after a pause--

"Have you considered this matter well?" he asked; "but you look
weary, my poor lad! take some wine--there are glasses on the
buffet--corporal, help yourself."

"I thank your Reverence," said Charters, who never required a second
invitation of this kind, and so filled our glasses with port--his own
twice in succession, and drank, muttering, "Good stuff this!  I've
tasted worse--in a palace too."

"Have you weighed well the step you are about to take?" continued the
rector, impressively.

"Yes," said I, firmly.

"But your parents----" he urged gently: "think of them."

"I have none," said I, in tones that faltered as my heart swelled
with emotion, and the old man shook his head sadly.

"You will never be able to undergo the hardships of foreign service,"
said he, shaking his head.

"Then I will help to fill the trenches," said I, with that spirit of
bravado which we so often feel or assume in youth.

The corporal said something approvingly; then the rector sighed, as
he dipped a pen in an inkhorn, and placed on his desk a printed
document, preparatory to filling up the blanks, or fifteen replies to
questions always asked of a recruit at attestation.

"What is your name?" he began.

Now it was that my heart failed me, and the question had to be
repeated three times, as I could not tell an untruth.

"Do you hear me," he added, gently; "your name?"

"Basil Gauntlet."

He threw down the pen and half rose from his chair.

"The son of Major Gauntlet, of Granby's Dragoons?"

"Yes," I replied, while both of the soldiers turned, and faced me
inquiringly, and with unconcealed interest in their eyes.

"Oh, Basil," exclaimed the rector, who knew at once both me and my
story, "this is sad, most sad.  Consider, I pray you, consider well.
I have some right to say this, for your father was one of my dearest
and earliest friends."

"Sir, you know how _his_ father has treated me; thus, that which
might have been dire necessity at first, has now become my choice.  I
am resolved to be a soldier, so I beg of you to hasten over this most
mortifying scene, and let me begone."

In the irritation I felt at my position, I spoke somewhat sternly,
even ungraciously, to this good man; so Charters came to my aid, and
urged that time pressed, so the formal oath was administered, which
bound me "faithfully and honestly to defend his Majesty King George,
his heirs and successors, in person, crown, and dignity, against all
enemies, and to obey all the orders of his Majesty, his heirs and
successors, and of the generals and officers set over me," &c.

This oath made me irrevocably a soldier.

The old rector shook my hand, and his voice faltered, for he felt
more emotion than I did, as he accompanied us to the porch of his
house, where he kindly bade us adieu.

"We shall have a most disastrous war ere long," said he, "and I may
say in the words of Goldsmith, 'Go, my boy, and if you fall, though
distant, exposed and unwept for a time, by those who love you, the
most precious tears are those with which Heaven bedews the unburied
head of the soldier.'  Farewell, my friends.  God bless you!"

"We thank you, sir," replied Charters, with a profound salute, and
with an air that had something lofty and noble in it, as he sprang on
his horse and gathered up his reins; "a good man's blessing can never
be given in vain, especially to such reckless dogs as we are; but,
believe me, sir, that though but poor soldiers now, my comrades and I
can never forget that we have been, and may again be, _gentlemen_!"

We were once more on the open highway.  I was glad the scene was
over, but I still seemed to see the mild and benevolent face of the
old rector, and to hear his parting words.

"So we have really had the honour of enlisting the heir to a
baronetcy?" said Kirkton.  "You were right to come with us.  I
thought you were meant for better things than to be squire to a
knight of the bluebag."

"What is that?"

"A lawyer.  Were we quartered in Bath your story would make your
fortune.  Any heiress would marry you for the prospect of the title."

"That is flattering," said I; and then thinking of Ruth, I added,
"Why not for love?"

"Bah!" said Charters, "people don't marry for that, except in plays
and novels."

"Jack, you are a misanthrope in spite of yourself," said Kirkton;
"but as this youth is the heir to a baronetcy----"

"I beg to have your promises of keeping the matter a secret when we
reach the regiment?" said I, with great earnestness.

"Why?" asked they.

"Because I owe nothing to my family, and hate them as they hate
me--the living at least.  Whatever I may do to gain honour or
promotion, will never be acknowledged by my comrades, who will be
certain to attribute success to the fortuitous circumstance of family
and name."

"Egad! you are right, boy, and I love and respect your spirit," said
Charters.  "I have more than once seen a poor fellow gain the
ill-will and malevolence of his comrades for being better born or
better bred than those among whom his lot was cast, and thus
bitterness came with prosperity."

"Your solemn pledge, then, that you will keep my secret?" said I,
earnestly.

They promised, and I may add that the worthy fellows never betrayed
it; but they too had each a secret, which they confided to me as we
sat together over a glass of beer in a wayside tavern, a few miles
from Rothbury.

"If I had not had the misfortune to have been born a genius, I should
perhaps never have been a soldier," said Kirkton.

"A genius--you?" exclaimed the corporal, laughing.

"Sorry am I to say it, for 'tis the fate of geniuses to be restless
and unfortunate.  True; Boetus, who wrote on the battle of Philippi,
died in prison; Plautus was a baker's drudge and turned a hand-mill;
Terentius Publius was the slave of a Roman senator----.  And I,
Thomas Kirkton, am a private in the Scots Greys!"

"'Tis an ungrateful world, my friends," added the other, with an air
of tragi-comedy that made us both laugh.



CHAPTER VII.

MY COMRADES.

Tom Kirkton was the son of a thrifty and prudent Scottish clergyman,
who had educated him for the Church, in the hope that he might be his
assistant and successor; but the wild life led by Tom when at
college, a natural impetuosity of temper, a genius for everything but
application--rash adventures and excitements--with stories of nights
spent in gambling and carousing, and rumours of various _intrigues
d'amour_, led to his formal expulsion by the Reverend Principal, and
ultimately drove him into the ranks of the Scots Greys.

Time and experience had somewhat tempered the reckless tenor of his
ways, and, though his boisterous manner was rather startling at
times, I could not but deem myself fortunate in having a companion so
well educated as he.

The story of Charters was indeed a singular one.

Five miles north-east of Dumfries there stands a tall, square, and
ancient fortress called the Castle of Amisfield, between the two head
streams of the Lochar.  For centuries this great tower had been the
stronghold and residence of the Scoto-Norman family of Charters, of
whom my comrade, the corporal, was the last representative.

In that tower he was born and reared, until he joined the army as an
officer.  At the age of eighteen he found himself a lieutenant in the
1st Dragoon Guards, and the inheritor of a splendid fortune, which he
lavished in London with the reckless prodigality of a Timon.  He was
at that time on leave of absence, seeking a transfer into a light
dragoon regiment.

When rambling one night near Hydepark Corner, he heard the cries of a
lady whose carriage had been stopped by footpads.  He hurried to her
rescue, and narrowly escaped a pistol-shot; but, closing with the
fellow who fired it, struck him down, on which his companions fled,
leaving Charters in possession of the field of battle.

The rescued lady proved to be a foreigner of very attractive face and
figure, with bright blue eyes, and a profusion of fair hair, amid
which, as well as on her neck and arms, many diamonds were sparkling.
She was richly dressed, and was returning, apparently, from a ball.

"You will permit me, madam, to escort you home?" said Charters,
bowing, hat in hand.

She entreated that he would not give himself so much trouble.

"But, madam," urged Charters, "those fellows may return, and I cannot
rest until I know that you are safe in your own residence."

"But which is your way, sir?"

"Your way is mine, madam--nay, I insist upon it."  And with great
gallantry he sprang up beside the servant on the footboard behind the
carriage, and the lady, pleased, perhaps, to see that he was a
handsome young man, made no further objection to his escort.

"Drive home," said she.

Pleased with the adventure, and considerably attracted by the
personal charms of the lady, especially by her broken English, which
had a child-like lisp in its sound, Charters slipped a handsome
_douceur_ into the hand of the footman as the carriage rumbled along,
and asked the name of his lady; but the man proved to be a foreigner
also, and replied in German, of which the questioner knew not a word.

"Good!" said Charters; "the mystery increases."

Indeed it grew greater still when the carriage, after traversing the
Park by the bank of the Serpentine, drew up before the lighted portal
of a large and handsome edifice of brick, having no less than three
spacious quadrangles, ornamented with columns, quoins, and elaborate
cornices of stone.  Charters immediately recognised Kensington
Palace.  Save the porch--near which stood two sentinels of the Foot
Guards in their boxes--and one or two windows, the whole façade of
the building was enveloped in darkness, for the king was absent,
having gone on what proved to be his last visit to Hanover.

Charters assisted the fair unknown to alight, and led her to the door
of the palace, with an air of confidence so perfect, that anyone
might have supposed the house to be his own.  Then she perceived that
he wore the Windsor uniform, at that time the usual dress of all
officers when on leave or on half-pay.  Attracted, no doubt, by his
air, which, though gentle and soft to her, was proud, dashing, and
careless, she paused upon the threshold to thank him for his ready
courage and escort--then, after a little pretty hesitation, added,
that she could not think of permitting him to retire without joining
her at supper.

"I cannot but accept, madam," said he, kissing her right hand, from
which she had coquettishly drawn the kid glove, as if, perhaps, to
show its beauty.

"You have no fear?" she whispered, with a soft side-glance in her
clear blue eye, as she took his proffered arm.

"None, madam; moreover, I am the foe of all restraint and prejudice."

"Then you should not have become a soldier."

"I can understand the restraints of the service, but I cannot abide
the shallow and hackneyed usages of society."

It seemed to Charters that her little hand pressed his arm rather
palpably at that moment, and she whispered--

"If seen here--if known--"

"By whom?" asked Charters, hastily.  "You have no husband, I hope?"

"No--nor lover--none here at least," replied the lady, laughing, as
she threw off her white silk capuchin or hood, and then Charters saw
quite enough of fair ringlets, and a neck and shoulders of great
beauty and wondrous delicacy, to remove any scruples or fears which
had occurred to him.  He was in for an adventure now, and felt
himself compelled to go through with it.  A retreat was not to be
thought of.

"By what name am I to have the honour of addressing you?" asked
Charters, in a half-whisper, as they sat down to supper, with the
German valet in close attendance, and in a snug little room in that
portion of the palace which had been built by the Lord Chancellor
Finch.  It was panelled and richly gilded, and from the walls one or
two dark Holbeins looked grimly down upon their _tête-à-tête_.  "Pray
tell me, madam," he urged; "for I am dying of curiosity."

"Call me Sophia," said the lady, looking down for a moment, and then
bending her bright eyes on him smilingly; "and you?" she inquired.

"I am Lieutenant Charters, of the 1st Dragoon Guards," replied the
other.  "Sophia?" he repeated, in a soft, low voice, as he mentally
ran over all the names of the female members of the royal family, for
he concluded that his new friend must be a princess at least.  Thus
some very wild ideas began to float through his busy brain; but at
that moment he could remember no Sophia among all the ladies who were
about the Court.

Amid all the rings that glittered on her hand--and a beautiful little
hand it was--he could see no plain marriage hoop; so his mind felt
considerably relieved on that score.  The valet in attendance wore
the royal livery; but an earl's coronet and the letter Y were on all
the plate, and graven somewhat ostentatiously, too.

Though some years his senior, this lady, by the charm of her manner,
her wit, and conversation, bewildered Charters so much, that in less
than an hour he was desperately in love with her; but she seemed
resolved to preserve her incognita, and they separated, with an
arrangement, however, to meet next day in Hyde Park, at an early
hour, and before it was thronged by promenaders.

In short, they met frequently there, and oftener still in the green
alleys of old Kensington Gardens--I mean that portion of them which
was laid out by Wise, the gardener of Queen Anne; and Charters' love
for his unknown became a confirmed passion, so much so that he
thought of visiting the Horse Guards and withdrawing his application
for a transfer to a light dragoon regiment, as he now anticipated
with dread a separation from his captivating Sophia.

As she expressed a wish to visit the opera one night, he begged
permission to escort her there; and on their entrance all eyes were
turned towards them.  Her fine hair was dressed to perfection; her
bright eyes sparkled; her soft cheek was flushed with pleasure, and
the richness of her dress and the splendour of her diamonds so
enhanced her fair and remarkable beauty, that Charters was enchanted
and felt proud of her.

Yet he could not conceal from himself that she was the object of more
than common--and more than well-bred--interest.  The ladies whispered
to each other behind their fans, and some of the gentlemen looked at
Sophia so boldly and so laughingly, that Charters felt inclined to
teach them a rough lesson, if he could but fix upon one or two in
particular.

They had seats next the royal box, which was empty, as the king was
still absent, though expected to arrive at St. James's next day.

The opera over, Charters escorted Sophia to her carriage, and
proposed to accompany her home, for he was resolved to remain in a
state of suspense no longer.  If her rank was so great that she
concealed her name from him, why accompany him to the opera, where
she was certain of recognition?  The mystery was now greater than
ever!

On attempting to step into her carriage she said--

"You must not--you cannot come with me--to-night at least."

"Why?" he asked, with surprise.

"The king returns to-morrow from Hanover."

"The king!" repeated Charters, in a bewildered manner.  "What has he
to do with the love I bear you--the love you have made me so happy by
accepting."

"Alas!  I cannot tell you here; but we must meet no more," said she,
sighing deeply.

The pressure of carriages compelled them to separate.  Sophia sank
back upon her cushioned seat, and covered her face with her
handkerchief, as if she wept bitterly.  The heart of Charters was
filled with acute sorrow and vague alarm; but could he have seen her
fair little face, he would have found it convulsed with--_laughter_!

"Hallo, Charters! so your fair one is gone?" said some one whose
voice he recognised; and turning angrily, he found himself face to
face with Frederick Shirley, a cornet of his own regiment.  "A rare
scrape you are in!" the cornet added, with a loud laugh.

"How so, sir?" asked Charters, sharply.

"What on earth tempted you to appear in an opera box with that woman?"

"_That_ woman?" he repeated, fiercely; "what woman--who?"

"She who just left you in that absurd turn out--for it is
absurd--horses, harness, and all," continued the unabashed Shirley;
"coronets, plating, and panels."

"Who is she?" asked Charters, somewhat crestfallen.

"What--is it possible that you do not know?" queried Shirley, with an
air of utter bewilderment.

"I know that she is adorable, and is called Sophia----"

"Sophia Amelia de Walmoden, Countess of Yarmouth, and bosom friend of
his majesty the king!" added Shirley, with another burst of laughter,
as he took the arm of Charters and led him away.

Charters was stupified!

He had been thus fooled by the mere mistress of this very
unattractive king, some of whose "amorous sallies" in Hanover had
excited _her jealousy_, and she was now anxious to revenge herself by
exciting his in turn; for she was certain that the Defender of the
Faith would hear of her appearance at the opera with a handsome young
cavalry officer.  So Charters trembled with rage at the thought of
his own folly, and began to school himself--however difficult and
unpalatable the task--to hate her as much as he had formerly loved
her.

Shirley's laughter galled him to the soul at first; but afterwards,
over their wine, he showed about a dozen of little pink and peagreen
notes, which he had received from his faithless Walmoden, all signed
"Sophia."

His appearance in public with the Countess of Yarmouth had given rise
to much speculation and gossip in the vicinity of Kensington Palace,
and St. James's too; and Shirley was unwise enough to boast
frequently of having seen the notes in the possession of Charters;
consequently, the latter soon found a secret influence at work
against him at headquarters, and that there was little chance of
obtaining either a transfer to another corps, or an extension of
leave.  This was unpleasant, as his funds were so much impaired by
extravagance, that he could scarcely rejoin the Dragoon Guards.

While he was in this dilemma, Shirley called at his hotel one
morning, and mentioned in confidence, that if he would give up
Walmoden's letters, he would find, on looking at the _Gazette_, the
position of his affairs materially altered.

Further information he stated himself to be unable, as yet, to
afford; so poor Charters, though not of a temper to be threatened
even by the king, was scared by the thought of his creditors, and
gave up the letters of the Countess to Shirley.

Impatiently he waited for the next _Gazette_; but on opening it, how
great was his astonishment and rage to find the following notice:--

"1st Dragoon Guards.  Cornet Frederick Shirley to be Lieutenant,
_vice_ Charters, _who resigns_!"

For some time he could scarcely believe his eyesight.  Then he called
for his horse and rode to the Horse Guards; but neither the
Commander-in-Chief nor the military secretary would receive him, and
for weeks he remained a prey to despair and mortification.  He sought
in vain for the perfidious Shirley, who kept sedulously out of his
way, and had now left London.

"My commission, the pride of my heart, was gone," said Charters with
a sigh, as he concluded his story; "and by my own folly and
extravagance, together with the active assistance of others, my
fortune was nearly gone too.  Friends disappeared as my purse
emptied, and ere long I knew not what to do, or whither to turn me.

"As for Shirley, my lieutenancy availed him but little, as he was
dismissed from the service soon after for declining to _go out_ with
a brother officer.  Gradually he became a gambler, a blackleg--in
fact, a common robber in London, and his fate was a fearful one; so
in my heart, I now forgive him.

"Was he executed?" I inquired.

"Worse.  His brother, Sir Jasper Shirley, being out of town, at his
place in Hants, the household plate was lodged, as usual, at his
banker's.  It was valuable, for among it was a princely service he
had received from the empress-queen when he was our Ambassador at
Vienna; and when a sudden order came to the wary old butler, desiring
him to get it all out, as Sir Jasper was returning to town, he showed
the letter to my ci-devant friend, Fred Shirley, who said 'it was all
right, as his brother would be in London to-morrow.'

"The butler, however, still had his secret fears; and after bringing
home the plate, borrowed from a friend a bulldog--a surly and savage
brute of great strength and ferocity, which he chained to the chest
over night.

"Shortly before daybreak, a dreadful noise was heard in the apartment
where the plate lay.  Lights were procured--the butler and other
servants hurried to the place, and found that a window had been
forced by the usual implements of a housebreaker, who lay on the
floor dead, but still warm, and in a pool of blood, for his throat
and tongue were completely torn out by the fangs of the ferocious
dog; and who think you he proved to be?  Sir Jasper's younger
brother--Frederick Shirley.

"So," added Charters, through his clenched teeth, "so perished he who
betrayed me!

"Drinking, gambling, and reckless dissipation among the _condottieri_
of London society, soon brought me like the prodigal of old to the
husks and the swine trough; till one day, when my better angel
triumphed over the evil spirit who had guided me so long, I conceived
the idea of endeavouring to regain, by mere force of merit, the
commission of which I had been so lawlessly deprived.

"Inspired by this resolution, so consistent with my warm and sanguine
temperament, I enlisted in the Scots Greys; but my evil genius still
follows me, for I have never got beyond the rank of corporal.

"I am not the man I once was, and may never rise higher.  Perhaps I
am too reckless, too much soured in temper, and too much of a
misanthrope, to deserve a commission, or it may be that the secret
vengeance of the king and his devil of a Walmoden, still pursues me
even here.  I cannot see my future, but, happily,

  "'There is a Providence doth shape our ends,
  Rough hew them how we will.'"



CHAPTER VIII.

HEAD QUARTERS.

Having now related how I became a soldier, almost in desperation and
misanthropy, I shall soon show how such emotions gave place to
better, to braver, and to higher aspirations, fanned by that blessed
_hope_ which never dies in the heart of youth.

I learned--but not for a long time after this period--that when news
of the step I had taken was brought by the sorrowing old Rector to
Netherwood, it gave great satisfaction to my worthy grandfather, and
still more to my affectionate cousin Tony, who drained a full bumper
to the health of the Frenchman whose bullet should rid them of me for
ever; and then Sir Basil was actually barbarous enough to shake him
by the hand and say--

"Zounds!  Tony, my boy, you may be heir to my title as well as acres,
and die a baronet yet!"

After travelling eighteen miles we reached Rothbury, a quaint old
market town of Northumberland, pleasantly situated in a valley
overlooked by a lofty ridge of rocks.  Our head-quarters were here,
but some of our troops were billeted at Bickerton, Caistron, and
other townships of the parish.

The Coquet flowed through the town, and every morning one of our
first duties was to take our horses there to water, which was done by
beat of kettledrum, for as yet the Greys, being Horse Grenadiers, had
no brass trumpets.

On the morning after our arrival at Rothbury, I was brought before my
commanding officer, Colonel George Preston.  Tall, handsome, and
venerable in aspect, he was a noble veteran officer, though somewhat
of an eccentric character in his way.  He was now far advanced in
life, and had been from his boyhood in the Scots Greys, having
entered the regiment as a kettledrummer in the last years of Queen
Anne.

He was a captain at the battle of Val, where, at the head of only
thirty Greys, he made so furious a charge upon a great body of French
cavalry, that he routed and drove them fairly off the field.  He then
pulled out his purse, and gave each trooper a ducat with his left
hand, for his _right_ was so swollen by the vigorous use he had made
of his broad sword, that the hilt had to be sawn in two by the
regimental armourer before he could be released from it.

Under his old-fashioned scarlet uniform, which was cut somewhat in
the mode of Queen Anne's days, he wore a _buff coat_, and this was,
no doubt, the last appearance of such a garment in any European army.

He received me gravely but kindly, and said,

"So, boy, you have resolved to become a soldier?"

"Yes, noble sir," said I; for as Charters had informed me, this was
then the mode of addressing the commanding officer of a regiment.

"You are very young, and seem somewhat different from the common run
of our recruits.  Your name is rather uncommon, too.  I presume that
your parents----"

"They are in their graves.  I have none to advise or regret me--none
whom I can regret."

(Did no thought of Poor Ruth arrest this sweeping speech?)

"Good! you are then the best of food for gunpowder.  Your age----"

"I am about eighteen, sir."

"You look older than that--in face, especially."

"Sir, those who have undergone such years as I have, frequently do
so."

In truth, I looked older than my age.  My figure was tall, well
formed and developed, while my face had a matured expression, and
somewhat resolute aspect, especially about the eyes.  Colonel
Preston, though a stern man, and a strict disciplinarian, felt a deep
interest and pride in his regiment, and thus he narrowly examined
every recruit before passing him into the ranks, and every man's name
and character there, were graven on his memory.

"I like both your spirit and bearing, boy," said he.  "Sixty years
ago, I was a poor and penniless lad, so I e'en became a private
trooper in the Scots Greys, and behold me now!  I am
Lieutenant-Colonel of the regiment, and hope, please God, to die a
General, and go to my grave under a salute of cannon.  Ere long, my
lads," he continued to me, and several other recruits, who had just
been ushered into the Orderly room, "we must all be in France or
Germany, and there we shall find what the fortune of war has in store
for us.  Remember that the sword of a brave man is always sharp, but
that of a coward for ever wants grinding!  Stand by me, my lads, and
I shall never fail you, and in me you see a living example of the
reward that may await sobriety, steadiness, and a strict obedience to
orders.  Put Basil Gauntlet into Captain Lindsay's troop; attach the
rest to Captain Cunninghame's.  The tailor and the roughrider will
soon make dragoons of them all."

I was conducted to my billet.  Fortunately it was in the same tavern
where Kirkton and Charters were quartered, and with them I shared the
first instalment of my pay, which at that time was small enough, when
a cornet had but a half-crown per diem, and a lieutenant-colonel of
Dragoons only eight shillings and six-pence!

My bounty-money was soon dissipated, for under pretence of
fraternising with me, or teaching me many matters that might be
useful, several of those rogues who are usually known in barracks as
"old soldiers," or "knowing ones," stuck close to me and to the other
recruits, so long as our cash lasted.

The next day saw me arrayed in full uniform.  The largest mirror in
the tavern (it measured only six inches each way) by no means
afforded me sufficient scope for the admiration of my own person in
this new attire; though I could view it, when reflected at full
length, in the shop-windows, while passing along the streets, into
which I at once issued, as Kirkton said, "to exhibit my war-paint."

In those days--this was in the year before we fought at Minden--the
Greys wore double-breasted scarlet coats, lined with blue, having
slit sleeves; long slashed pockets were in each skirt, and a white
worsted aiguilette dangled from the right shoulder.  We wore long
jack-boots, and tall grenadier caps, with the Scottish Thistle and
circle of St. Andrew in front.  Our cloaks were scarlet lined with
blue shalloon, and in front they had rows of large flat buttons set
two and two, on white frogs, or loops of braid.  On our collars we
wore a grenade in memory that at its formation, a portion of the
regiment had been armed with that formidable weapon, the same as the
Scots Horse Grenadier Guards.

Everywhere the proud motto of the corps met my eye; on the standards
and kettledrums, on our caps, carbines, and pistol-barrels, and on
the blades of our long straight broadswords, I read the words--

SECOND TO NONE!

That short sentence seemed full of haughty spirit; it gave me a new
life, and fired my heart with lofty inspirations.  I repeated it,
dreamed and pondered over it, and as our departure for the seat of
war was daily looked for, I longed for active service, and for the
peril and adventure ever consequent thereto.

The brusque manners, rough words, oaths and expletives used by some
of my comrades, certainly shocked and somewhat blunted my chivalry.
To be sure all gentlemen then swore to their hearts content: and I am
sorry to say the army carried the fashion to an extreme, and there a
quiet fellow was sure to be mocked and stigmatized as a methodist or
quaker.

In all the many wars which succeeded its first formation, when it was
raised by Sir Thomas Dalyell and Graham of Claverhouse, in 1678, to
fight against the hapless covenanters, our regiment had borne a great
and glorious part.  At the battle of Drumclog and at Airsmoss where
Richard Cameron the field-preacher fell, the Greys were, unhappily,
the terror of their own countrymen; and even now, after the lapse of
so many generations, traditions of those dark days still lingered in
our ranks--handed orally down from veteran to recruit.

In better times they had served in the wars of Anne and of the
earlier Georges, and always with honour, for in every campaign they
captured a colour, and at the battle of Ramillies surrounded and
disarmed the French Regiment du Roi, capturing no less than
_seventeen standards_.*


* Fact: _vide_ "Regimental Record."


Our officers were all gentlemen of high spirit, who belonged to the
best families in Scotland; and so attached were their men to them,
that the corps seemed to be but one large family.
Punishments--especially degradations--were almost unknown; yet "auld
Geordie Buffcoat," as they named Preston, was one of the most strict
colonels in the service.

Every regiment has its own peculiar history and traditions, just as a
family, a city or a nation have; these are inseparably connected with
its own honour, achievements and badges, and with the military glory
of the country, and thus inspire and foster the fine sentiment of
_esprit du corps_.

But to resume:--

We marched southward by easy stages, and during the spring of the
year were quartered at Newmarket, where the inns have ever been
proverbial for the excellence of their stabling and other
accommodation, and where the race-ground and extensive heath were so
admirably adapted for training the cavalry, who were all subjected to
severe drill in anticipation of foreign service.

By this time I had gone from squad to squad, rapidly through all the
phases which a recruit has to pass--position-drill and sitting up
till my spinal column was erect as a pike; club-exercise to expand
the chest and strengthen the muscles of the arm.  Then came pacing
and marching; then equitation, embracing all the skilful and ready
aids by which to guide and control my horse in all his paces, and to
acquire a firm seat in every variety of movement--to govern him also
by my legs and bridle hand, so as to leave my right at the fullest
liberty for the use of my weapons.  Then I had the exercise of the
latter to acquire--the sword, carbine, and pistol.  Other hours were
devoted to lance, post, and stick practice.  Even a smattering of
farriery was not omitted; so the first six months which followed my
_début_ as a Scots Grey left me little leisure for reflection, or for
the study of ought else than would conduce to make me a perfect
dragoon, skilled in all the science of destroying human life.  I
learned, moreover, that a _perfect_ dragoon is not made in a day.

Colonel Preston daily superintended in person the training of his
recruits; and the presence of the fine old man, with his mingled
kindness and enthusiasm, kindled a kindred spirit even in the breast
of the dullest fellow among us.

It seemed to me--but it might be fancy--that he took particular
interest in myself, for he frequently spoke to me with such words of
encouragement or praise, that my young heart swelled with gratitude;
and I felt certain when the time came, that I would follow the brave
old man, even to the cannon's mouth, with the devotion of a son,
rather than the mere obedience of a soldier.

An anecdote of our veteran colonel, then current, related that when
George II., who frequently displayed much favour and partiality for
the Greys (notwithstanding his hatred of the Scots), was reviewing
them in Hyde Park one day before the Marshal Duke de Broglie and a
prince of the House of Bourbon, Louis Philippe, Duke of Orleans, he
said--

"Monseigneur le Prince, did you ever see a finer regiment?"

"They are fine indeed," replied the Prince, as the royal staff passed
along the line; "but pardon me if I think them inferior to our
Gendarmes de la Garde.  Did your majesty ever see _them_?"

"No," replied the king; "but I have little doubt that my Scots Greys
have--eh, Colonel Preston?"

"Yes," said the Colonel, grimly, "we _have_ seen them."

"Where?" asked Louis Philippe.

"At Dettingen, when auld Jamie Campbell, who was killed at Fontenoy,
led us to the charge against them."

"Well--well," said the king, impatiently, "and what followed?"

"We cut them to pieces, and there I took their _white standard_,
cleaving the bearer down to the breeks; and the prince, if he
chooses, may see it now, hanging in Westminster Hall."

At Newmarket my chivalry received a severe shock, by being present at
the execution of a Light Dragoon who was shot for desertion.  He had
been sentenced to three hundred lashes by a regimental court-martial.
On this, he appealed to a general court, which, instead of confirming
the former sentence, inflicted the penalty of--death!

It was long before I forgot the horrors of that scene; the grey light
of the early morning--our pale faces on parade--the ominous
silence--the almost whispered words of command--the pallid prisoner,
as he knelt beside his black deal coffin, and the shriek with which
he fell within it as the death volley rang across the far extent of
the open heath, and then the trumpet sounding to form open column and
pass the poor corpse by files, announced that all was over.



CHAPTER IX.

MY HOPE FOR THE FUTURE.

I have stated that I was placed in the troop of Captain Francis
Lindsay, which for a time separated me from my friends, Charters and
Kirkton.  This was one of the nine troops of Light Horse, or Hussars,
lately formed, one of which had been added to every regiment of heavy
cavalry.

In a speech recently made in Parliament, His Majesty observed "that
the late success of his ally in Germany had given a happy turn to his
affairs, which it would be necessary to improve."

The loyal Commons took the hint and liberally granted new supplies,
both for the service of Frederick of Prussia, who was then at
hostilities with the French monarch, and for enabling the army in
Hanover to co-operate with him vigorously; and war having two years
before been declared against France, an expedition--of which we were
to form part--was prepared for a descent upon the coast of that
country.

We were detached from the regiment, and ordered from Maidenhead to
Southsea Common, where we were encamped and brigaded with the light
troops of other dragoon corps, for instruction in the Prussian
exercise; and I may state without vanity that the light troop of the
Greys in aspect, mount, and discipline, were allowed by those who saw
them far to excel every other in the camp.*


* "The _flower_ of the Hussars is the troop commanded by Captain
Lindsay, quartered at Maidenhead, where they have been practising the
Prussian exercise, and for some days have been digging large trenches
and leaping over them; also leaping high hedges with broad ditches on
the other side.  Their captain on Saturday last swam his horse over
the Thames and back again, and the whole troop were yesterday to swim
the river."--_Weekly Journal_, May 23, 1758.


Resolved to rise in the service by my own merit alone, I strained
every energy to become master of my drill in all its principles and
theory.  The sword or foil was never out of my hand when I could find
an antagonist; thus I became an expert swordsman, as well as an
excellent horseman, and a decidedly good average shot with pistol or
carbine.  With either, I would put a bullet through a common playing
card, when passing it on the ground at full gallop.  This devotion to
my profession, and my rapid progress did not fail to recommend me to
Captain Lindsay, a brave and high-spirited officer, to whom we were
all devoted.  He was a handsome fellow too, and generous as a
prince--to use a common phrase--especially when on service, sharing
whatever he possessed with his men.

It was while here under canvas, working hard, drilling, trenching and
ditching, teaching myself and my horse--a noble grey, sixteen hands
high, and a model of temper and courage--to swim when fully
accoutred, that in a tavern near the camp, an old, tattered, and
liquor-stained copy of the "Weekly Journal" one evening fell in my
way.  Books, periodicals, and papers were then almost unknown in camp
and barracks, though the gallant General Wolfe had striven hard to
encourage the formation of regimental libraries, and since I had
donned the red coat, I had neglected everything connected with
literature, save a French grammar, of which during my scanty leisure
hours, or when on guard, I laboured hard to make myself master.

While lingering over a pint of beer, I read every word of the
"Journal," even to the obituary; and in the column of the latter, was
a notice that gave me a shock, as if struck by a bullet.

It recorded the death of my grandfather four months ago by a sudden
attack of gout in the head, caused, it was stated, by the grief he
experienced on hearing that his well-beloved heir, Mr. Anthony
Gauntlet, had been killed by a fall from his horse when riding
furiously near Kirk Yetholm.  "Thus," continued the paper, "the
estates of Netherwood, worth thirty thousand per annum, pass to Mr.
Anthony's only sister, the charming Miss Aurora Gauntlet, who becomes
one of the richest heiresses on the Border, and thus disappears one
of our oldest baronetcies, the first Sir John Gauntlet of that ilk,
having been one of those, _infeft_ in lands in Canada with power of
castle, pit and gallows, in the usual form, by the earth and stone of
the castle hill of Edinburgh, and by the hand of Charles I., in
person, in 1633."

"Disappears!" I muttered, through my clenched teeth.  "True, the
title disappears; but only for a time I trust."

I sat long buried in thought after this.  Thirty thousand pounds per
annum!  That money by right was mine; this cousin, this Aurora, whom
I had never known, never seen, and whom I hated in my heart as a
fresh usurper, would doubtless be married by some one--a
fortune-hunter, a needy adventurer perhaps--and thus my patrimony
would go to the enrichment of strangers, while I----

Thick and fast, fierce thoughts crowded upon me; I had little more
than enough to pay for the poor glass of beer I had drunk, but I
threw it on the table, and walked sullenly off without waiting for
the change.

As I walked along the road, other emotions came over me--emotions
that were prouder, better, more lofty and more soothing, for I saw
the white tents of the camp--my new home--shining in the setting sun,
as they dotted all Southsea Common.

I remembered the story of one whose fate was somewhat, if not
exactly, similar--the poor Scottish baronet, Sir Robert Innes, who
became a private in the foot regiment of Colonel Winram, of Liberton,
and remained there long in obscurity, as private Robert Innes, till a
former friend recognised him when on duty as sentinel one day before
the quarters of the colonel.

On discovering that he was thus honoured by having a baronet to guard
his door, Winram obtained Innes a commission, and gave him in
marriage his only daughter and heiress, Margery.  I thought I would
strive to be like him, and until the lucky spoke of Fortune's wheel
turned upmost, I would relinquish, save in my secret heart, all pride
of birth or position of family, and the past, and forget too the
important monosyllable, of which my unnatural grandfather had left
nothing undone to deprive me.  This was a brilliant bit of romance,
no doubt, but unlike Winram, poor old Colonel Preston had no
inheritance save his sword and his quaint uniform; and no beautiful
daughter to bestow.  I had no former friends to recognise me, and
bring about a striking denouement, so I might be sentinel at his door
for a hundred years before he could befriend me as Sir Robert Innes
was befriended by Colonel Winram.

As a supplement to the notice I had seen, next day on parade the
trumpet-major of the Light Horse, who usually acted as our postman,
handed me a large thick letter.  It bore the Berwick postmark, and
was addressed in the familiar handwriting of Mr. Nathan Wylie.

My heart sprang to my lips, but I had only time to thrust the missive
into one of my holsters, for the trumpets sounded to "fall in" and I
was kept in an agony of suspense and anxiety to learn the
contents--which seemed rather bulky--during the whole of a long and
tedious morning parade, with its subsequent drill on the common.

What could this letter be about, what its contents?  Money?  It
seemed too hard for bank-notes.  Was it about Ruth--poor little Ruth
whose soft image now rose so upbraidingly before me; for sooth to
say, in the hurly-burly of camp and quarters, I had quite forgotten
her.

The moment parade and drill were over, I rushed away to a quiet nook,
and tore the packet open.  It contained a letter from Nathan Wylie,
short, dry, and professional, together with an old parchment,
snuff-coloured by time.

It briefly stated that in his last will and testament, my respected
grandfather had cut me off with the sum of one shilling sterling,
which the writer herein inclosed, together with a document which he
sent, doubtless as a taunt upon my private's uniform--the diploma of
the Netherwood baronetcy.



CHAPTER X.

THE FRENCH DESERTERS.

Lord Anson, Vice-Admiral of the Red, having put to sea with seventeen
sail of the line (one of these was the hapless _Royal George_, which
afterwards sunk in Portsmouth harbour), and several frigates, with
some smaller craft, to block up Brest, and favour the descent to be
made on the French coast, our expedition was prepared with great
rapidity, and Charles Spencer, Earl of Sunderland, who had lately
succeeded to the Dukedom of Marlborough, arrived in camp, to take
command of the troops.

Our recent successes by land and sea, the territories and victories
won by our armies in America, the East and West Indies; the almost
daily processions through the streets of London, escorting Spanish
treasure to the Tower or to the Mint, accompanied by the captured
ensigns of French and Spanish admirals, gradually filled all Britain
with a fiery enthusiasm, and fanned the passion of glory in the
usually phlegmatic breast of John Bull to such a degree, that nothing
now was talked of but war and conquest, and the strange resolution
was come to of carrying hostilities into the heart of France!

There were mustered on South sea Common, sixteen regiments of the
line, nine troops of Light Horse (ours included) six thousand
marines, and three companies of artillery, the whole under the Duke
of Marlborough, with Lieutenant-Generals Lord George Sackville, and
William, Earl of Ancrum, K.T., with four Major-Generals, Dury,
Mostyn, Waldegrave, and Elliot, the future Lord Heathfield, and "Hero
of Gibraltar," who led the Light Horse, six hundred in number.

The noble harbour of Portsmouth, which is so deep and so sheltered by
high land that the largest ships of the line may there ride out the
roughest storm without touching the ground even at the lowest ebb of
the tide, presented a scene of unusual bustle and preparation.

It was crowded by craft of every description; ships of the line,
frigates, gun-brigs, tenders, store-ships, and transports; its waters
being literally alive with man-of-war boats, barges, and launches,
skimming to and fro, filled with seamen and marines, or laden with
stores, water-casks, and ammunition which were being conveyed from
the town or arsenals to the fleet.

Twelve flat-bottomed boats, each capable of holding sixty-three men,
were prepared.  These were to be rowed by twelve oars each, and were
not to draw more than two feet of water.  Meanwhile a vast number of
scaling ladders, sandbags to form batteries, baskets for fascines,
waggons for the conveyance of wounded, of stores and plunder, had
been brought to Portsmouth from the Tower.

Several launches and many bridges, each sixty yards in length,
together with floats and stages, for landing the troops, horses, and
horse artillery, were made in all haste.

Nothing was omitted that might ensure the success of this daring
expedition, for which the departure of Lord Alison's fleet to Brest
was certain to open the way, as we had long since swept the fleet of
France from the seas; and so great was the enthusiasm in London, that
Viscount Downe, Sir John Armytage, Sir James Lowther, and many other
English gentlemen of distinction joined the fleet and army to serve
as private volunteers.

And there, amid that bustling scene in Portsmouth harbour, lay the
_Monarque_, on the quarter-deck of which, the brave Admiral Byng had
been judicially murdered, in the preceding year, not as his sentence
had it, "for an error in judgment," but to cloak the errors of a
ministry!

The infantry destined to serve on our expedition, were three
battalions of the Foot Guards; the Eighth, or king's regiment; the
famous Twentieth, or Kingsley's; the Welsh Fusileers; the Edinburgh
regiment; the Twenty-fourth; Thirtieth; Thirty-third; Thirty-fourth;
Thirty-sixth, Sixty-eighth, and the regiments of Richmond and Talbot.

From Southsea Common the whole force was ordered to the Isle of
Wight, where for a short time a camp was formed; but on the same
night that the order for this movement was issued, I was despatched
on duty to London, bearer of a letter from Commodore Howe to the
Lords of the Admiralty.

I knew not what its contents were then, but departed on my mission
with the document in my sabretasche, my orders being simply to
deliver it at the Admiralty office, and to bring back the answer
without a moment of delay.  I shall now proceed to relate how I was
personally concerned in the contents of the document entrusted to me
for delivery.

From the day I joined the army, I was full of eagerness to bring
myself prominently before my leaders; but my first essay was
singularly unfortunate in its sequel.

One evening when on duty as sentry on foot with my carbine, posted
near some sea-stores that were piled on the beach, not far from
Southsea Castle, I observed two men of a foreign and somewhat
suspicious aspect, who were loitering near, and observing with
unmistakeable interest the shipping in the harbour, the distant camp
on the common, and the stores that were piled near the castle-gate.
On perceiving that I observed them they came directly up to me, and
touched their hats with great politeness.

"Mon camarade," said one, in very good French, "we are French
sailors----"

"Then you have no business to be loitering here," said I, bluntly and
hastily.

"Pardonnez-moi, camarade; but we cannot help it."

"Then you are prisoners of war?"

"Nay----" stammered the other.

"What then?"

"Deserters," was the candid response.

"You are very rash to be here at such a time."

"We have escaped from the castle of St. Malo, where we were
shamefully treated, and are anxious to offer our services and our
knowledge of the coast."

"To us?"

"_Oui--mon brave,_" said the fellow, with a grimace.

"Against your own country?"

"Sacre! our country deserves nothing better at our hands," he
continued, smiling and bowing.

My disgust was so strong that I felt tempted to club my carbine and
knock the traitor down: but I restrained the emotion and said--

"I am only a private dragoon, and can in no way assist you--so please
to move off.  It is contrary to orders for me to converse thus, and
for you to loiter here."

"We are aware of that," said one, in a deep, growling voice, who had
not yet spoken; "but monsieur will perhaps direct us to whom we can
apply."

"If you have been in the French Marine service, you should know that
well enough yourself."

I paused, and then thinking that, though these men were traitors and
rascals, their services or information might be valuable to the
general and commodore, I said--

"Messieurs, I may be able to assist you, when relieved from guard.
What are your names?"

"Mine is Theophile Damien," said the first speaker.

"And mine, Benoit Bossoit."

"We have both been seamen, and have served on board the privateer
ship, _le Maréchal Duc de Belleisle_, under the famous M. Thurot, in
that battle off the Firth of Forth, with your two frigates, the
_Solebay_ and _Dolphin_, in May last."

Next day, when relieved from guard, I met those men, by appointment,
at a quiet tavern, where we had some wine, for which they paid
liberally, seeming to be very well furnished (especially for
deserters) with Louis d'ors; and in the course of conversation I
spoke freely--far too freely--of the number, strength, and probable
objects of our expedition.

The name of one of these men--a tall, muscular, dark, and
coarse-looking fellow, whose subdued manner belied his savage
aspect--struck me as being singular.

"You are named Damien, are you not?" I said to him.

"Theophile Damien--at monsieur's service."

"It seems familiar to me."

"As to the most of Europe," said he, bitterly, and he ground his
strong white teeth as he spoke.

"What causes your hatred to your country--this disloyalty to your
king?"

"Tudieu! have I not told you that we were slaves--galley slaves--and
confined in St. Malo?"

(I find myself in honourable company, thought I.)

"Slaves without a crime," growled Bossoit.

"At least I had no crime," said the other, "save that I bore the
hated name of Damien."

"What," I exclaimed, as a sudden light broke upon me; "are you a
kinsman of--"

"Exactly, monsieur, of Robert Francis Damien, you would say--of that
unfortunate peasant of Tieuloy, who, in January last year, stabbed
King Louis, just as he was stepping into his state coach at
Versailles, and so nearly rid France of a tyrant--yes, I am his
brother."

"Was not this would-be regicide deranged?" said I, as fresh doubts of
the value of such a pilot occurred to me, and I feared for my own
honour, if found in company with Frenchmen of such a character, and
especially at such a conjecture.

"His reason was wavering--poverty and the long wanderings of an
unsettled life had made it so; but instead of confining him in a
prison or fortress, he died of the most dreadful tortures," replied
the first Frenchman.

"So I have heard."

"The king's wound was slight; but my brother was beaten to the earth
by the sword hilt of Guillaume de Boisguiller, a captain of the
French Guards, several of whom in the first transports of their zeal
and fury, burned him severely with their torches, while he lay
prostrate at their feet.  A fortnight after this he was tried and
tortured.  Shall I tell you what followed?  _Tête Dieu!_ my blood
boils, and my heart sickens at the memory of it.  After making the
_amende honorable_ in the Church of Notre Dame, he was conveyed to
the Place de Grove, where vast multitudes were assembled; where every
window was filled with eager faces--and every housetop bore a living
freight.

"The Provost of the merchants, the Echevins and other magistrates of
Paris, in their robes, with all the great lords and ladies of the
court, occupied the windows of the gloomy Maison aux Piliers, or
Hotel de Ville, on the spire and pavilions of which banners waved as
for a festival.  In the square, beyond the scaffold and the troops
who circled it, scarcely was there breathing space, so closely, so
densely were the spectators massed; but a silence like that of death
hushed every tongue, for they knew that a scene of horror was about
to ensue."

The Frenchman paused; the perspiration stood in bead-drops on his
brow; his face was deadly pale, and I could not fail to feel deeply
interested, while thinking at the same time, that the language and
bearing of himself and his companion were very different from what
one might expect to find in a couple of runaway privateersmen.

"If, on that terrible day," he resumed, "voices were heard, it was
the murmur of those at a distance--those who were too far off to
see--the thousands who crowded the narrow vistas of the Rue de la
Tannerie, the Rue de la Mortellarie, the Rue du Mouton, and the Quai
de la Grêve, for all Paris had flocked to witness my brother's
execution.

"At five o'clock, just as the grey light of a dull March morning
stole over the pale-faced multitude, the punishment began.  My
brother's right hand was half consumed by fire, and then struck off.
Amid the agony, though his limb shrivelled and blood burst forth, _O
mon Dieu!_ the poor soul neither winced nor asked for mercy; but when
pincers, red hot and glowing, and ladles filled with boiling oil,
molten lead and flaming resin, were applied to his arms, thighs, and
breast, he uttered shrieks so piercing that every heart grew sick and
every face grew pale.  On his bones the very flesh was broiled, and
his blood hissed in steam around him!  He was then disembowelled."

"Assuredly that must have put a period to his sufferings?" said I, in
a low voice.

"No--the principle of life was strong within him, for my poor brother
was one of the most athletic of our peasants in Artois.  These
agonies--this butchery were insufficient to glut the rage of the
courtiers and the fury of his judges.  Four strong young horses were
now harnessed to his four limbs, and lashed in opposite directions,
but failed to sever his mangled frame, and he had now ceased to cry
or moan."

"Failed, say you?" I exclaimed, becoming more and more interested, in
spite of myself, by the Frenchman's detail of this revolting
execution.

"Yes--so the chief executioner, with a sharp knife, severed the
sinews at the joints of the arms and thighs.  Anew, the long whips
were cracked--again the horses strained upon their traces, and a leg
and arm were torn from the body of my brother, who looked--mother of
mercy!--yes, looked after them, as they were dragged along the
pavement, with the blood spirting from vein and artery; but on the
severance of the other two limbs, he expired.

"His remains were then cast into a fire, which was kept burning all
day, and all the succeeding night."

"Were you present at this horrible scene?" I asked, after a pause.

"No--I was with Monsieur de Thurot, cruising off the coast of
Scotland.  On my return to France, I found my brother's family and
name, even to the most remote degree, proscribed, and the cottage in
which we were all born, at Tieuloy, in Artois, razed to its very
foundations in token of infamy, and the place where it stood had been
salted and sown with grass.  On hearing of all this, some bitter
words escaped me, so I was placed in the castle of St. Malo.  There I
made a vow to achieve both freedom and revenge.  I have fulfilled the
first part of that vow, and, _Dieu-merci_!  I am here."

A peculiar glance, the meaning of which at that time I could not
understand, passed between the speaker and his companion; and as the
story of the former seemed a strange one, I conducted them at once to
Captain Lindsay of our troop.

He questioned them in a manner that displayed considerable contempt
for the new character they wished to assume; and then sent them with
a note to Commodore Howe, who at once accepted their services, and it
was with a dispatch containing some real or pretended information
they had given, that I was sent to London, on the evening when the
troops began to move for the Isle of Wight; and I departed, happy in
heart and high in spirit, furnished with an order to the constables
of parishes and others, to furnish me with such relays of horses as I
might require.

Four days' pay were given to me in advance; but as I left the camp,
Captain Lindsay generously and kindly put a half-guinea in my hand,
and desired me to "make myself comfortable, and for the honour of the
corps, to avoid all scrapes and doubtful company by the way."



CHAPTER XI.

WANDSWORTH COMMON.

It was a lovely May evening when I left busy Portsmouth.  The shadows
of the tossing branches of the old limes and sycamores that bordered
the wayside were cast far across the yellow corn; the white and
purple lilacs, the golden laburnum trees, and the tall hollyhocks
with their gorgeous crimson flowers, made beautiful the gravelled
avenues that led to many a villa and farm, while the fertile uplands
that sloped in distance far away, were half hidden in the warm haze
of the summer sunset.

I felt proud of my showy uniform, proud of my beautiful grey charger,
and proud of the mission on which I was departing, though in the
humble capacity of an orderly dragoon; and I was happy in the
prospect of two days of perfect freedom from the routine and trammels
of the camp, for a soldier, however young and enthusiastic, soon
learns that he is no longer "the lord of his own proper person."

My chain bridle and steel scabbard jangled in unison to the clank of
my horse's hoofs, as he trotted rapidly along the level highway, and
in my young heart swelled anew all the pride of being a soldier, a
horseman, and an armed one.

Within a week I should probably be treading the soil of hostile
France, even as I was then treading the soil of peaceful and happy
England.  France! might I ever return from thence?  Many of us were
fated there to find our last home, and might I not be one of the
doomed?  I thrust aside the thought--not that I feared death, I was
too young and too hopeful for that; but shrunk from the idea of
perishing with the mass, before I had achieved what I conceived to be
my mission; before I had won myself a right to bear with honour the
name my forefathers had bequeathed to me, and before I had resumed
that title, the diploma of which the miserable Nathan Wylie had sent
in mockery to the private soldier!

Night came on and the road grew dark and lonely; there was no light
save that of the stars, which I saw reflected at times in the bosom
of the Wye, and twelve tolled from the steeples of St. Mary and St.
Nicholas, as I entered the quaint old market town of Guildford, and
rode straight to the Red Lion, where I stabled my horse and ordered a
relay for the morrow.

A forty miles' ride gave me a good appetite; I supped and retired to
bed, where I slept without a dream even of the future, for I was
weary.

The next day was far advanced before I set forth again; but I
proceeded slower now, the hack furnished to me by the innkeeper
proving very different in mettle from my fine grey charger.  In
short, the animal nearly broke down by the way, and though the
distance between Guildford and the metropolis is only about thirty
miles, evening closed in before I saw at a distance the vast and
dusky dome of St. Paul's, rising in sombre grandeur from amid the
yellow haze, formed by the smoke and by the myriad lights of London.

I had left behind me the little village of Wandsworth, which is
finely situated on the declivities of two small hills, and was
traversing the common, then a wild and open waste covered with grass,
gorse, and tall waving weeds through which the roadway passed.
Clouds had now obscured the stars, and the night was so dark that I
had some difficulty in tracing my path, though the accumulated glare
of the innumerable street lamps and other lights of the vast city was
very distinct but a few miles off, rendering the foreground darker.

When about the middle of the common, I heard the sharp report of a
pistol and then the scream of a woman.  These alarming sounds, and
the flash of the explosion, came from the very path I had to
traverse, so I spurred on my jaded hack, and found a carriage stopped
on the common by two armed and mounted highwaymen, with crape masks
on their faces.  Such gentry were at that period still in the zenith
of their perilous fame.

They had fired a shot to make the postillion pull up, and were now
stationed one at each window of the carriage, demanding the purses
and other valuables of the travellers.

My holster pistols were at the demi-pique saddle of my troop horse,
which I had left at Guildford; so drawing my sword, I rode boldly up
and demanded what was the matter, and who fired the shot I had heard.

"You had better ride on and attend to your own affairs," replied a
surly fellow, with a horrible oath, as he coolly reloaded his pistol.

"Surrender your weapon, rascal," I exclaimed, resolutely, "or I shall
cut you to the teeth!"

"Fire at him, Bill," cried he to his comrade.  "Zounds! are we both
to be cowed by a saucy shoulder-knot?"

On hearing this, his comrade urged his horse furiously round from the
other side of the carriage.  Then I heard another female shriek as he
levelled a bright-barrelled blunderbuss, the bell-muzzle of which was
so near my face that the light flashed on it as he drew the trigger,
for happily it only burned priming; otherwise my head would have been
blown to atoms, as on inspection afterwards I found this formidable
firearm was loaded with slugs of lead and iron.

"Hung fire, by all that's infernal!" exclaimed the fellow; but his
exclamation of wrath ended in a howl of agony, when by a stroke of my
sword I hewed off half of his right hand, and the weapon fell on the
road, together with three of his fingers.  On this they put spurs to
their horses and galloped away at a break-neck pace.

With a shout of victory I pursued them for a few hundred yards across
the common, and then returned at a canter to the carriage, the
occupants of which proved to be two ladies, who, by their manner and
difference of years, appeared to be mother and daughter.  They had
with them a waiting-maid, and it was she whose cries I had twice
heard.

Their air was distinguished; the younger was a very beautiful girl
with fair hair and a delicate complexion, but this was all I could
discern by the light of a carriage lamp, which one of the footmen--a
rascal who had hitherto hidden himself among some fern--now held
within the window, while the ladies were putting on their rings,
gloves, and bracelets which they had drawn off to surrender at the
moment I came so luckily to their rescue.

"Mamma, dear mamma, all danger is past.  They are gone, and we are
safe; be assured, be satisfied," I heard the soft voice of the
younger say imploringly to the elder, who was excessively agitated.

"Ladies," said I, touching my cap, "be composed now, I pray you;
those fellows have fled, and are not likely to return.  Fortunately,
I have put a mark upon one that he will not easily efface."

"Sir," replied the elder lady, in a voice still tremulous with alarm,
"accept our deepest gratitude.  To you we owe our rescue.  Our money
and jewels would have been a trifling loss, but how know we that
these men might not have murdered us here on this lonely heath? and
we hear of such dreadful things in these days."

"But was your servant here without pistols?"

"No, a pair of loaded horse-pistols are always in the rumble with
John," replied the young lady.

"Why did you not use them, fellow?" said I, turning sharply to the
valet.

He reddened and stammered something about the danger or rashness of
one man encountering two, but his knees were trembling under him, and
the hand which held the carriage lamp shook as if with palsy.  In
fact, he seemed so convulsed with fear that the young lady and I
could not forbear laughing at him.

"When passing this way again, I shall take care to travel by
daylight, or with a bolder escort than you, John Trot," said she,
while the maid-servant, whose face I had not yet seen, as she sat in
a dark corner, loudly and bitterly expressed her contempt for the
unfortunate knight of the shoulder-knot, and for his lack of valour.

"We left the residence of a friend near Croydon about sunset, and
should have been in London long since," observed her mother, "but a
wheel came off at the cross road which leads to Kingston, and thus we
were detained until this unpleasant hour.  Have you, sir, also come
from Croydon?"

"Nay, madam, I have just come from Portsmouth."

"Portsmouth!" echoed both ladies, with voices expressive of interest
and animation.

"With despatches from Commodore Howe for the Lords of the Admiralty,"
said I, with an emotion of vanity difficult to repress, especially at
my age then.

"Are you one of those who are bound for France?"

"Yes, madam."

"When does the fleet sail with the army?"

"Next week, 'tis said; but nothing definite has yet transpired," I
replied, with all the air of a staff officer.

"Poor boy!" I heard her say, with something like a sigh, and with
winning softness of tone, as the valiant John Trot asked if the
carriage was to move on.

"As the night has become so dark, madam," said I, "you must allow me
to have the honour of escorting you to town.  You have still to pass
Clapham Common, and its reputation for safety is somewhat
indifferent.  Even in Lambeth I have heard that robberies have been
frequent of late."

"But how can we trespass so far upon your kindness, sir?" urged the
young lady, whose voice made my heart beat faster.

"Believe me, madam, I deem it a great honour and happiness to have
been of service to you, and for to-night, at least, your way shall be
mine.  I am pretty well mounted, and very well armed."

"Fortunately, you are also proceeding to London," said her mother;
"therefore I accept your polite offer with gratitude."

I bowed nearly to my horse's mane, and then said to the valet--

"Hand up that blunderbuss, John; it may serve as a trophy, and remind
your lady of to-night's engagement on Wandsworth Common."

"And the three fingers--oh--ugh?" asked John, with chattering teeth.

"Those you may pocket, if you please," said I, while withdrawing the
charge, which, as I have said, proved to be slugs.  I put the weapon
in the rumble, and then the carriage was driven off.

As it rolled over the dark heath, I rode at a quick trot behind it;
but frequently, when our pace became slower as we ascended a slope
and the horses walked, the ladies conversed with me, and then I rode
abreast of the open windows.

It was evident that by being muffled in my trooper's cloak, and
having on a small foraging cap, I was taken for an officer; thus the
elder lady gave me her card, and expressed, in the usual polite
terms, the delight it would afford them to see me at their residence
in some modish square (I failed to catch the name), if I had leisure
to-morrow morning, as they had to leave town again at mid-day.

I felt piqued, and an emotion somewhat of bitterness and
mortification stole into my heart; and while secretly cursing alike
the rules of society and my own false position, I thanked her for the
kind invitation, but without the least intention of availing myself
of it.  After this, I became a little reserved; but it was a
difficult task to be so with the young lady, who was a lovely girl,
and lively too.  She conversed with me gaily, and asked if I longed
for foreign service; if I thought the war would be protracted; if we
were sure to beat the French; if I was not afraid--she begged pardon
for such a silly question--of being shot in battle; and a hundred
other pretty nothings, while her sweet face and sparkling eyes seemed
to come out of the gloom of the travelling carriage, and then to fade
into it again, as we passed an occasional dim street-lamp, all of
which in those by-gone days I need scarcely say were lighted by oil.

At the bridge of Westminster, which had been built about ten years
before, I bade them adieu, and with something like a sigh of regret,
departed in search of some humble hostelry wherein to pass the night.

This brief meeting--the whole episode in all its details interested
me deeply.  Those women so highly bred, so delicately nurtured, so
richly dressed, so gentle and winning in manner, were so different
from those whom I was now compelled to meet, in camp and barracks, at
the canteen and sutler's tent, that for the first time my heart
repined at the prospect before me.

"Pshaw!" said I, "let me think of this no more."  But near a lamp I
reined up to examine the lady's card, and searched my pockets in
vain.  I had lost it!

"It matters little," thought I; "and yet, withal, I should like to
have known their names."  And amid the roar and bustle of the lighted
streets of London, I still seemed to hear the merry laugh and gentle
voice of the fair-haired girl whose hand I had so recently held in
mine.



CHAPTER XII.

THE RACE.

All the adventures of the preceding night appeared but a dream, when
early next morning--at least so early as I could hope to find any
high officials at their office--I rode through the crowded streets of
London, and delivered the despatch of Commodore Howe at the Admiralty.

"Immediate" being written on the envelope, I had to remain in a
waiting-room for more than an hour, after which the answer was
entrusted to me, addressed, "On H.M. Service," to Commodore Howe.  As
I afterwards learned from the public prints, this document, among
other instructions, empowered him to avail himself of "the services
and information of the two French deserters named on the
margin--Theophile Damien and Benoit Bossoit."

I consigned it to my sabretasche, remounted, and quitted London at a
quick pace about two p.m.

On leaving the greater thoroughfares behind, when traversing the
suburbs I easily lost my way, and at a tavern, near which a number of
fellows in their shirtsleeves were playing skittles, I drew up to
inquire the way to Portsmouth.

I questioned one who was seated at the door smoking; he was a man
with a very sullen and forbidding expression of face, who had his
left hand thrust into the breast of his vest.  He wore a shabby
snuff-coloured suit with large steel buttons; his legs were incased
in long riding-boots spotted with mud, and I perceived the brass
butts of a pair of pistols, peeping from his square flapped side
pockets.

I was somewhat surprised when this sinister-looking stranger, after
giving me a long and ferocious stare, started from his seat, uttered
a deep imprecation, and entered the house.  I then called to the
skittle players, and repeated my question to them.

On this they simultaneously abandoned their game, and gathered about
me.

"The Portsmouth road lies straight before you," said one; "be you
going to France, my lad?"

On my replying in the affirmative, they gave a simultaneous cheer,
and, amid cries of "Old England for ever!" and "Down with the Johnny
Crapauds!"  I had to drink with them all, and they continued to wave
their hats as long as I was in sight, while galloping along the road
they had indicated.

Being anxious to reach Portsmouth and to rejoin, I rode at a hard
trot; the road was good, the country open and level.  Two mounted
persons appeared at times behind me; but I continued to keep in
advance of them.  Some association of ideas made me think of the
sulky fellow I had seen at the tavern door, and of the two highwaymen
of the preceding night; but after a time I perceived that one of the
riders was a lady, and that both were coming along at a rasping pace,
as if determined not to be distanced and left behind by me.

I had taken the Epsom road, thus a ten miles' ride brought me to
Ewell, near which, in a pleasant green lane, where the plum and apple
trees that bordered the way intertwined their branches overhead--one
of those quiet, dewy, and shady green lanes that are so peculiarly
English, where the bees hum, and the gossamer webs are spun--I drew
bridle to breathe my horse.

I now heard the sound of hoofs coming rapidly along the road, and in
a minute after, there swept past me the fair traveller I had seen,
and some yards behind her rode a man in livery.  They were both
admirably mounted on blood horses.  Her ample skirt, her long fair
hair, and the ostrich plume in her hat streamed behind her.  I could
see with a glance that she had her horse well in hand, though it flew
almost at racing speed, causing mine to rear and strain upon the bit,
as she passed me with a merry ringing laugh of delight, and with a
flourish of her whip, so much as to say, "A challenge--we have
distanced you at last!"

This I was not slow in understanding, and feeling somewhat piqued,
put spurs to my nag, and dashed off in pursuit by the highway that
led to Epsom.

Twice I saw her looking back, which her valet, though a good
horseman, scarcely dared to do; and each time she plied her little
riding-switch with no very sparing hand, and like a girl of spirit.

Copsewood in full foliage, thatched cottages half buried among ivy,
hops and flowers, ripe corn fields, and red brick houses, seemed to
fly past, and in a very short space we found ourselves traversing
Banstead Downs.  I gained on them fast, for my horse had been
thoroughly breathed.  I soon passed the livery servant, and a few
more bounds brought me neck and neck with his mistress, who turned to
me laughingly, a flush--the genuine flush of youth, pleasure, and
exercise glowing in her soft cheek--and simultaneously we pulled in
our horses on recognising each other.

She was the charming blonde I had met on Wandsworth Common--the
heroine of my last night's adventure!

My cavalry cloak was rolled and strapped to my saddlebow; and I
thought there could be no mistaking my private's uniform now, and
indeed, her countenance changed very perceptibly as she said, half
breathlessly--

"Good morning, my friend.  So I have actually been running away from
the person to whose courage mamma and I owe so much!"

"It would almost seem so," said I, bowing.

"Believe me, sir, I knew not that it was you," she resumed, colouring
deeply, and casting down her eyes (how fair her soft loveliness
looked by day!).  "I saw but a horseman before me, and could not
resist the temptation of passing him."

"Nor could I resist the desire of accepting your very palpable
challenge," I replied, just as the valet came up, fearfully blown,
and in his crimsoned face I recognised the features of the valiant
Mr. John Trot.

"But I was not altogether trying a race with you," said the young
lady, still blushing deeply, and beginning to move her horse away; "I
was riding fast to overtake mamma, who is in yonder carriage.  She is
come to drink the waters of Ashted Spa, and I doubt not will be glad
to tender you once again her thanks."

With these words, and with an air that seemed to say, "This
interview, or this mistake, has lasted long enough," she bowed and
urged her horse towards the carriage, which was standing about fifty
paces distant on the high road, and from a window of which I saw a
lady observing us.

The young girl's figure showed to perfection on horseback, and her
riding-habit, which was of light green cloth, trimmed with narrow
gold braid, suited well her blonde beauty and golden-coloured hair.
She wore a broad black beaver hat, from which a single ostrich
feather drooped gracefully on her left shoulder.  Loosened by the
roughness of the gallop, her soft hair flowed over her neck in silky
ripples--I know no more fitting term--of light golden brown, that
glittered in the sunshine.  Her riding-gauntlets were of yellow
leather, and her hands, as they grasped the reins and riding-switch,
seemed small, compact, and beautifully formed.

"I thought we had lost you, madcap!" said her mamma, with annoyance
in her tone and manner; "what caused you to gallop thus along the
Downs, as if riding a race?"

"I was running something very like it, certainly, mamma; but do you
not see that we have been overtaken by--the--the gentleman who saved
us from robbery last night?"

"I am hastening back to Portsmouth, madam," said I, with a profound
salute.  "In my ignorance of the country I have taken the road to
Epsom instead of that which leads to Cobham, and to this mistake I
owe the good fortune of meeting with you again."

"You had not time, probably, to visit us before leaving town this
morning?" said she.

"I had the mischance, madam, to lose your card."

At that moment, a man of sinister aspect, and shabbily attired, but
with holsters at his saddle, looked fixedly at us, as he rode slowly
past, on a bald-faced bay horse.

His _left_ hand was bound up by a red handkerchief, and,
consequently, he held the reins of his bridle with the _right_.  He
glared at me, with a glance of such undisguised ferocity, that I had
not a doubt he was the wounded rascal of last night's adventure--the
same man, he of the snuff-coloured suit and steel buttons, whom I had
seen with the skittle players in the suburbs of London.

Was he dogging me?

If so, 'twere well to be prepared.  All this flashed upon my mind
with the usual rapidity of thought; but I was too much interested by
my new friends to attend to him then, and, ere our interview was
over, he had disappeared upon the way to Guildford--the road _I was
to pursue_.

"Zounds!  I must look out," thought I, "or there may be a blank in
Lindsay's muster-roll to-morrow."



CHAPTER XIII.

THE HANDKERCHIEF.

"It is, indeed, singular that we should meet again, and so soon,
too!" said the elder lady, who, notwithstanding the silver tinge amid
her auburn hair, still bore unmistakable traces of a beautiful
person; "your regiment is, I think, a Horse Grenadier one?"

"Yes, madam."

"The Guards?"

"No--it is the Scots Greys, or Second Dragoons--yet we boast
ourselves 'Second to None.'"

"A proud vaunt," said she, smiling at my manner.

She was silent for a few moments, during which I was conscious that
her daughter was observing me with some interest.  As our officers
did not then wear epaulettes, but simply a silver aiguilette, her
next observation was an awkward one for me.

"You are a captain, I hope?" said she, smiling.

"Nay--I am too young," I replied, with a hesitating manner and a
glowing cheek.

"Yet Wolfe, whom I once knew, was a colonel at twenty.  Then you are
a cornet?"

I felt the blood rushing to my temples--yet wherefore should I have
blushed "for honest poverty?"

"Curiosity is the privilege of our sex," said the young lady, coming
to my rescue; "thus mamma is most anxious to know to whose bravery we
owed our safety."

"Madam, I have not the honour to be more than a private trooper,"
said I, with a bearing of pride that had something stern in it.

Mamma did not lose her presence of mind, though the colour in her
daughter's cheeks grew deeper, but replied--

"All, indeed!  I believed you by your bearing to be an officer."  She
drew her head within the carriage.

"I thank you, madam; I was not always what I am to-day," said I,
sadly.

"And now, my good fellow, if you will favour me with your name,
Colonel Preston shall be duly informed, by letter, of your courage."

There was another pause, during which I shortened my reins, and was
turning my horse, when the winning voice of her daughter, which had a
singularly sweet chord in it, arrested me, as she said--

"You belong, you state, to the Greys?"

"Yes."

"Do you know a soldier named Gauntlet--Basil Gauntlet?"

It was now _my_ turn to feel confusion and extreme surprise.

"Yes; but how has he the honour, the happiness to be known to you?" I
inquired, with growing astonishment, while gazing into her clear,
bright eyes.

"I have an interest--have we not _both_ an interest in him, mamma?"
said she, with confusion.

"You--in a poor unfriended trooper?" I exclaimed.

"He is from our neighbourhood--that is all," replied the young lady,
with a hesitating manner.

I scanned her face in vain; its soft expression and lovely features,
her hair of golden-brown, her eyes of dark blue-grey--eyes full of
faith, of truth and merriment withal, were quite unknown to me, and
my heart beat quicker while my bewilderment increased, as she said--

"We have heard that this ill-starred lad has become wild, rakish,
bad, incorrigible and ugly."

"Ugly?  Come, I am sorry you say so," said I, with something of pique.

"Why?" asked the mamma, raising her eyebrows and eyeglass.

"Gauntlet and I are alike as twin brothers could be, and I don't like
to hear him reviled."

"Ah, indeed," said she, glancing at me leisurely through her
eyeglass.  Then, as thoughts of Jack Charters' countess, and the
scrape _she_ had lured him into occurred to me, I resolved to become
reserved; but could not help inquiring--

"Permit me, ladies, to ask how poor Gauntlet is so fortunate as to
interest you?"

"We are namesakes--that is all," replied the elder lady, rather
coldly.

"Namesakes!" echoed I; but at that moment, as the arms on the panel
of the carriage door caught my eye--a shield _argent_ charged with a
gauntlet _gules_--a new light broke upon me.  Anger--sudden, fierce,
and glowing anger--was my next impulse, and, turning to the fair
rider, I stammered, but my voice almost failed me, "You are--you
are----"

"The granddaughter of Sir Basil Gauntlet, of Netherwood," said she,
with haughty surprise.

I was silenced and confounded!  This lovely girl whom I had twice met
so singularly and so abruptly, was my cousin Aurora, the new usurper
of my patrimony--one whom I had schooled myself to hate and in my
soul revile; and this elder lady, so noble, so courtly, and still so
handsome, was the mother of my late fox-hunting cousin Tony--my aunt
by marriage--she who doubtless believed me to be--if she ever thought
of me at all--the outcast, runaway, and worthless wretch my unnatural
grandfather had sought to make me.

Pride and a just sense of indignation swelled up within me, and I sat
on my horse, silent, irresolute, and stern.  Aurora and her mother
knew little of the stormy, the fierce conflict of nameless emotions
that raged in my heart.

"Adieu, soldier," said the mamma, "with a thousand thanks for the
service so bravely and politely rendered.  If you will not give us
your name, at least do me the favour of accepting this," she added,
drawing forth her---purse.

I uttered a scornful laugh, and reining back my horse, said--

"Nay, nay, ladies, though impoverished and humbled, I cannot submit
quietly to the degradation of being offered money."

"This is most singular!"

"How is mamma to reward you?" asked the young lady, with something of
surprise and, as I thought, pleasure in her tone.  It might be that I
flattered myself.

"By permitting you to give, and me to accept--" said I, taking a lace
handkerchief from her hand, for I was always a lover of effect, and
resolved to produce one now--"of this trifle as a remembrance----"

"Of what?" she asked, blushing to the temples; "a remembrance of
what?"

"That Basil Gauntlet has been of some service to Aurora, the
beautiful cousin who has done him a grievous wrong in unwittingly
depriving him of his heritage and birthright.  Three days, now, may
find me on the seas for France; so adieu, aunt and cousin, adieu for
evermore!"

Then I cut short this remarkable interview by spurring my horse with
such energy that he made a wild bound, and sprang away at a dashing
pace along the road to Guildford.

Impulse had made me take Aurora's handkerchief, and impulse now made
me regret having done so.

Pride resumed its sway, and thus, while riding furiously along the
road, I never turned once to look behind me.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE RED LION AT GUILDFORD.

As I rode on, anger, pride, a keen sense of the foul injustice with
which my family had treated me, and of the false position in which
they had placed me with the world, prompted me with a desire to cast
Aurora's handkerchief to the wind; but the knowledge that she was an
unwitting participator in the act by which my grandfather had
transferred my heritage to her late brother, Tony; the memory of her
kind manner, the gentle expression of her eye; together with certain
high-flown ideas I had gathered from novels, tales of chivalry, and
other romantic lore, prompted me to retain it.  Edged with lace, it
was of the finest cambric, and "Aurora," marked by her own hand, no
doubt, appeared on one of its corners.

It was strange, but certainly not unpleasing, that she should think
of and ask for me, whom she had never seen; and the tones of her
winning voice yet lingered in my ear.  My mind soared into airy
regions, and became filled with tumultuous and undefined thoughts,
for I was a famous architect of castles in the air.

"Ah, that I had the lamp of Aladdin, or even his ring, for ten
minutes!" I exclaimed.

Aurora--who was well named so, with her pure complexion and golden
hair--was the only living relative who had ever bestowed a thought
upon me, so I placed the relic of her in my breast, and rode on,
little foreseeing that on a future day that handkerchief would prove
the means of saving my life.

On reaching Guildford, I repaired at once to the inn, where, on
entering the stable, I remember well how my noble grey welcomed me by
neighing, by licking my hand, and rubbing his forehead against me,
when I greeted him as an old friend.

In the next stall there was a bald-faced nag with eyes askance,
surveying us over the trevice boards, and his aspect seemed familiar
to me.

The Red Lion at Guildford was one of those huge, misshapen, queer old
galleried houses which still survive the Tudor days in many parts of
England.  It had acute wooden gables, with stacks of clustered
chimneys that started up in picturesque confusion.  The walls were
plastered and whitewashed, and had varnished beams of ancient oak, in
some instances richly and grotesquely carved, placed in them
horizontally, perpendicularly, and diagonally.  On the side which
faced the stable-yard there opened a triple row of bedroom galleries,
having twisted balustrades; and all this quaint superstructure rose
from an arcade composed of octagonal stone pillars and ponderous
beams of good old English oak elaborately carved.  Gigs, chaises,
covered carts, and red four-wheeled waggons, occupied the sheds
around the yard; and the sound of hoofs and the rattle of stall
collars evinced that the stables were well filled.

When I arrived night was closing in, and a bright red light streamed
cheerily through the windows of the bar into the outer darkness as I
entered by the porch, which had a flight of steps down, instead of up
to the door, for so old was the edifice that the soil had gradually
accumulated far above its original basement.

I am thus particular in describing the house, in consequence of a
startling incident which occurred during the few hours I sojourned
there.

I inquired of the ostler to whom the bald-faced nag belonged, and he
replied to a gentleman who had retired to bed, weary with a long
journey.

The host of the Red Lion was so patriotic that he insisted upon
having me to sup with him, and he would make no charge for my own or
horse's entertainment.  He drank deeply, and anon was soon borne away
to bed by the ostler and waiter, while shouting vociferously,
"Britons, strike home!" and "Down with the Johnny Crapauds!"

After this, I retired immediately, being anxious to reflect a little
over the passages of the day, to sleep, and if possible to depart by
daybreak.

As the waiter, candle in hand, was conducting me along one of the
bedroom galleries, which I have described as overlooking the
stable-yard, a dark figure appeared to hover at the further end; and
there from amid the shadow a human face seemed to peer out as if
observing us.

The hour was late, and the place in all its features strange to me.
I stepped towards this eavesdropper, but he or she immediately
disappeared.

If ghosts there were in Guildford, the upper regions of the quaint
old tumble-down Red Lion seemed to be the very place in which one
might take up its quarters, but other thoughts than of ghosts were in
my head, so I inquired where the rider, or proprietor of the
bald-faced nag was located.

"In number six," replied the waiter.

"On this gallery?"

"Yes, sir."

"And mine?"

"Is number twelve--the oak room.  His is at yonder end."

"'Twas there the figure disappeared."

"Figure?  Well, there ain't no ghosts or ghostesses either in the Red
Lion that ever I heard of, and I have been here both man and boy
these many years."

"How is this traveller dressed?" I continued.

"In brown broadcloth, I think, master."

"With a rusty old cocked hat?"

"Yes, bound with black galloon."

"Is his left hand wounded?"

"Don't know," replied the waiter, yawning, "for he keeps it always in
his weskit pocket."

My suspicions now amounted to certainty.  He was my acquaintance of
Wandsworth Common--the highwayman, beyond a doubt.  We were certainly
in too close proximity, but the landlord of the inn was too tipsy to
be referred to, and I had no desire to be detained upon the morrow,
charged as I was with important papers for the commodore at
Portsmouth, thus I made no more remarks, but took the candle, entered
my room, and shut the door.

The apartment was entirely pannelled with dark wainscot, hence its
aspect was quaint and gloomy; the furniture was uncomfortably
antique, for this being one of the upper and cheaper lodgings of the
Red Lion, the whole appurtenances were the oldest in the house,
having gradually retired from story to story, till their last service
was to be spent in the attics.

The fireplace was wide, lined with blue Dutch tiles, and had a little
old-fashioned basket grate, set upon square blocks of stone.

From the latticed window I could see the Wye winding under the
bridge, the dark arches of which were clearly reflected in its
starlit current beneath.

Two strong bolts secured my door, so there was no danger of being
surprised by my friend in the snuff-coloured suit through that
avenue.  I threw off my belts and uniform, and slipped into a bed
that felt cold, damp, and old, for the moths flew out of the
russet-coloured canopy and hangings, to flutter about the candle end,
the light of which expired just at the moment when I had no further
use for it.

I felt feverish, wakeful, and full of many thoughts.  Then there were
strange sounds in this old house rather calculated to banish sleep;
the night wind moaned in the wide chimneys: rats scampered about
behind the decaying wainscot, scattering fragments of lime in their
career.  It might be fancy, but twice some one seemed to lift the
latch of my door softly as if attempting to open it.

Ere sleep began to weigh my eyelids down, I had mentally rehearsed
over and over again the two unexpected interviews with my cousin
Aurora; and again I repented having condescended to take her
handkerchief even in a spirit of gallantry.

It was very cavalier-like no doubt--very romantic and all that; but
in my heart I linked her and her mother with those who had outraged
and wronged me, and pride dictated that I should have left them in
ignorance of who I was, and then have ridden off on my lonely way.
However, now the deed was done, and regret was unavailing.

Would they--Aurora and her stately mother--triumph over the
temporary, alas! it might be permanent, obscurity and humility of my
position?  There are human hearts wicked enough to feel such triumph,
for many persons hate those whom they wrong; but Aurora's gentle
voice and tone of sympathy when addressing me removed the supposition
that she could be guilty of this.

I had met with so little kindness in the world that the circumstance
of her remembering even my existence impressed me deeply.

These two interviews dwelt long in my memory.  I was now excluded
from the society of polished and educated women: indeed, from the
force of that evil destiny to which I had been abandoned, I had
hitherto seen little of either; thus the charm of my cousin's manner
and the beauty of her person filled my heart with new aspirations,
and a keener desire to assume my place in society; but at present the
die was cast, and to France must I go as a private dragoon.

My half-drowsy ruminations had been frequently disturbed by sounds
too strange to escape my observation.  At last they impelled me to
sit up in bed, to listen and to look around me.

The room was dark as a tomb, save where through the fantastic iron
tracery of the antique window I could see the clouds, like masses of
black crape, float past the twinkling stars.

On the wind, which came down the old chimney, there were borne sounds
like sobs and sighs--like fierce mutterings and groans that became
deep, hollow, and agonizing; and they seemed to be emitted from the
wall immediately above the fireplace.

My ears tingled and drops of perspiration started to my forehead, for
I must confess that, at the moment, I was weak enough to fear the
supernatural, until there came the decidedly earthly sound of a huge
piece of plaster falling heavily into the empty grate.

After a time the noises entirely ceased and I was about to drop
asleep, when a hoarse and despairing cry, as of some one being
strangled close to my bed, rang through the panelled chamber, and
brought me again to a sitting position, with all my pulses quickened
to the utmost by apprehension and the vague sense of sudden alarm.

"This can no longer be borne!" I exclaimed.

Starting from bed I drew my sword, and unbolting my door issued forth
into the gallery which overlooked the stable-yard.

The night, or rather the morning-air, was mild and balmy; the wind
had died away, and all was calm and still.  I heard the clock of the
Guildhall strike the hour of two.  No other sound stirred the air;
and as noises at that still hour are so deceptive--though there was
something in that hoarse cry which impressed me with horror--a dread
of ridicule, or of being the victim of some piece of waggery,
prevented me from summoning the domestics of the inn; so once more I
bolted the door, put my sword at the head of the bed, and therein
ensconcing myself, soon fell sound asleep.

The next day was rather far advanced when I woke up and started from
bed, on instantly remembering that I must be gone without delay.

During a hasty breakfast I could not refrain from speaking to the
landlord of the noises which had disturbed me so much in my chamber.

"Was the wind high or stormy last night?" I began.

"No; the weather was rather calm," said he, with his mouth full, for
he was making a hearty, old-fashioned breakfast of sliced beef, and
nut-brown, home-brewed ale.

"Were any persons quarrelling or fighting hereabout?"

"When?"

"Why, all night; till two in the morning at least."

"I heard not a sound--the house was perfectly quiet."  This statement
the waiter, ostler, and landlady hastened to corroborate.

"Then," said I, "by Jove your inn is haunted."

"Take care what you say, my good fellow," replied the landlord,
becoming angry; "for lookee, my house has as good a reputation as any
in the county of Surrey, so none of your tricks, soldier."

"Then the devil was in my chimney all last night, say what you will,"
I responded with equal, if not greater, irritation.

On hearing this the landlord's colour changed visibly.  He went
immediately to my room, accompanied by a servant, who soon returned
making a great outcry, and stating that a man had been found wedged
in the chimney, that by looking up with a lighted candle, his heels
could be seen dangling some five feet or more above the mantelpiece.

On hearing these tidings, the whole household became excited, and
crowded to the apartment I had so lately quitted.

On looking up I could see, amid the obscurity of the chimney, the
feet of a man, but they were beyond our reach.  Workmen were soon
procured; the panelling was removed; then the bricks were taken out,
a breach made, and in something less than an hour, the dead body of a
man was exhumed, all begrimed and covered with soot and lime.

He had evidently died of suffocation, having reached a portion of the
chimney where he could neither descend further nor work his way up
again, and had there miserably perished; being literally choked by
the soot and lime, of which he had inhaled such quantities in his
fruitless struggles and painful gaspings, that his foam-covered mouth
and bloodshot eyes were quite filled with them.

His left hand was found to have been recently mutilated; his right
still grasped a sharp clasp knife, which was doubtless intended for
_my_ behoof, as an examination proved the body to be that of the
traveller who had occupied No. 6, in the upper gallery--the figure I
had detected, watching in the gloom, when retiring to rest.

As some housebreaking implements were found in his pocket, the
landlord averred that he had been in search of the strong-box and
plate-room; but I had my own idea of his too probable errand, and
thus the terrible sounds which had so long disturbed me, and that
last hoarse cry of despair and death, were completely accounted for.

Fearing that I might be detained until a coroner's inquest had been
held, concerning the death of this highwayman and would-be assassin,
while all the inn people, guests, and servants, were fall of dismay
by the discovery, I saddled my grey, and set forth for my destination
at a spanking pace which soon left Guildford far behind.

Before the evening gun had boomed from Southsea Castle I had reached
Portsmouth, delivered my despatches and reported myself at
head-quarters.

I was heartily welcomed by Charters and Kirkton, who had been sent by
Colonel Preston to join Lindsay's light troop.  I rejoiced at this,
having sorely missed their society and companionship.

My few hours of freedom and romance--for there was something of
romance in Aurora possessing my fortune, and I only her
handkerchief--were now at an end, and again I was simply Basil
Gauntlet the private dragoon.



CHAPTER XV.

SAIL FOR FRANCE.

By the last day of May, all the troops destined for the hostile
expedition were embarked on board of the ships of war and transports.
In all there were thirteen thousand fighting men, with sixty pieces
of cannon, and fifty mortars.

The embarkation of our horses was an object of peculiar care, and
General Elliot, with Captain Lindsay, of ours, superintended this
duty in person--for on the manner in which it is performed, depends
all the chance of cavalry being employed with success in the field
after landing.

They were conveyed on board the various ships, after a short march of
exercise, and when perfectly _cool_.  On the first night after
embarkation, each received a mash mixed with some nitre, and bran was
supplied to every trooper, as the chief portion of his horse's daily
ration.

Every day each dragoon had to wash with care the hoofs and fetlocks
of his horse, and to sponge its face, eyes and nostrils with cold
water.  We had ample wind sails rigged up for air, and spare slings
and bands all ready in case of illness or accident, but, fortunately,
neither occurred among the nags of our troop at least.

At daybreak, on the first of June, a gun from the commodore gave the
signal _for sea_; and in less than ten minutes every vessel had her
anchor apeak or atrip, and her head sails filled, and soon after,
with nine hearty cheers, the whole armament, consisting of
twenty-four ships of war, and one hundred and forty transports,
cutters and tenders, stood out into the channel, and a glorious sight
they presented.

The _Essex_, a sixty-four gun-ship, commanded by our commodore, the
Honourable Richard (afterwards Earl) Howe, led the van, and closely
in her wake followed the _Brilliant_ of thirty-six guns, commanded by
Captain Hyde Parker, who was afterwards knighted for his services off
the coast of America.

As the _Essex_ bore across Sandown Bay, I have been told that the
French deserter, Theophile Damien, assisted with his own hands to
steer the ship, as if in token of the good service he meant to
perform for us in future.

There was a pretty stiff breeze on this morning, and I had a dread of
sea sickness, as the vessel rolled heavily, her main-deck being
encumbered by stores; but the novelty of the scene and of the
situation, together with the activity of the seamen, as they swarmed
up aloft and lay out upon the yards, occupied all my attention for a
time; and to our tars of after years, the Jacks of Anson and of Howe,
in their little low cocked hats, Dutch-cut pea-jackets, petticoat
trousers, and brass-buckled shoes, would present a very unusual
spectacle.  Certainly their costume was scarcely fitted for sending
down the topgallant yards, or lying out on the man-rope to close-reef
topsails in a gale of wind; but they were true tars, nevertheless.

Ere long the breeze, which had favoured us so much that the shores of
England had lessened astern, veered somewhat ahead; the weather
became stormy and wet, and I was glad to keep below, and share the
stall of my horse.  While Kirkton, Charters, and others, who had been
frequently at sea before, sat out upon the booms to leeward, and
smoked to fill up the time.

In their mirth and cheerfulness, they formed a contrast to the
unfortunate seasick troopers, who were all huddled away in groups,
seeking shelter under the lee of anything that offered itself, and
who remained there in discomfort and misery, till the drum beat for
all but the watch to go below and turn in.

Next day I came on deck about dawn, and joined Charters, who was one
of the morning watch, and here I may mention, that when on boardship,
troops are divided into three watches, and must take their share of
all deck duty with the seamen.  A subaltern officer has charge of
each watch, and there are also, when the numbers embarked will permit
it, a captain and subaltern of the day.

"Gauntlet, my lad, you look pale," said Charters, as he trod to and
fro to keep himself warm; for though the month was June, the air upon
the morning sea was cold, and the chill spray came flying in showers
over the weather cat-heads, as the _Brilliant_ sped upon her course,
like all the fleet which covered the open channel, close hauled; "the
morning watch is a devilish cold one, and we have no chance here of
getting a hair of the dog--eh?" added my friend, laughing.

"What land is that?" I asked, with chattering teeth, while clutching
the rigging with one hand, and pointing southward with the other.

"The land of France--that is Cape La Hogue," replied Charters.

"Ay," growled an old quartermaster; "yonder is the fort, with the
flag flying."

The old tar's eyes must have been better than mine, which could
discern neither fort nor flag; but I muffled my trooper's cloak about
me, and set myself to watch the hostile shore.

The outline of the land looked dim and low, and like a dark cloud, as
it rose from the grey morning sea, which was all of a dusky tint and
flecked with masses of foam.  The whole aspect of the fleet was
gloomy and cheerless now; the decks and canvas were wet and dripping
with the rain of the past night, and with the spray of the waves, for
there was a heavy sea running in the channel; but anon the sun began
to rise through successive bars or streaks of purple and saffron
cloud; then the long lines of waves rolled after each other
glittering in light.  The canvas aloft became whiter; the hulls of
the vessels shone and became instinct with life, as the red port lids
were triced up, the snowy hammocks placed in their nettings, and the
scarlet coats crowded on the decks; drums and bugles were heard from
time to time, warnings for parade, orders or messing, as the swift
fleet flew on at the rate of eight knots per hour, and now and then,
by a signal from the commodore, the best sailers were ordered to cast
a tow-line to the more slow, especially our deeply laden storeships.

On the evening of the 3rd of June we came to anchor, between Sark and
Jersey, for what reason I know not.  In the night we had a hurricane;
one transport lost a mast, another lost her bowsprit, and a third,
crowded with foot soldiers, was totally lost by running foul of a
sunken rock.  The boats of the _Brilliant_ were piped away with great
celerity, and all the troops were saved before the wreck went to
pieces; but I shall never forget that horrible night--the darkness of
the atmosphere, the bellowing of the wind and the roaring of the sea,
while the frigate leaped, plunged and strained on her cables, like a
restive horse; and then, amid all this, the danger and excitement
caused by the sinking of the transport amid the obscurity of that
stormy midnight sea, and the loss of life that might have ensued but
for the skill and bravery of our seamen.

Jersey is so surrounded by reefs of sunken rock, that it was a
miracle no more of our armament perished on this occasion.

On the morning of the 5th, the commodore signalled to weigh anchor
and pursue our course.

The whole fleet ran with a fair breeze along the coast of Normandy,
and so close were we in shore, that the houses, farms, and even the
inhabitants could be seen distinctly without the aid of glasses.  At
one place we saw a column of French Infantry on the march, with all
their bayonets glittering in the sunshine; at another, where the land
opened near Sainte Soule, a regiment of dragoons riding at full
gallop in the direction we were pursuing.

"Tom, we shall be under fire to-morrow," said Charters, thoughtfully,
as he knocked the ashes from his pipe into the palm of his left hand
and scattered them to leeward.

"All the better," replied Kirkton, "the see-saw of home service has
sickened me."

"And me too," added I, "and I long for some keen excitement."

"Excitement," replied Charters, "then you are likely to have it with
a vengeance, my boy!  Think of thirteen thousand men invading France!"

By two o'clock p.m. we came to anchor in Cancalle Bay, on the coast
of Brittany, nine miles eastward of St. Malo.  The _Brilliant_ lay
not far from the famous rock of Cancalle, so celebrated for its
oysters, the fishing of which forms one of the chief sources of local
wealth.

Commodore Howe, it would appear, had now questioned narrowly the two
French deserters, Theophile Damien and Benoit Bossoit, whom I had
been the humble means of introducing to his notice, and discovering
that they were profoundly ignorant of the whole locality, he began to
suspect both their veracity and intentions, and therefore ordered
them to be made close prisoners, while, accompanied by the Duke of
Marlborough, Colonel Watson our quarter-master-general, and Thierry
the pilot, he went in the _Grace_, an armed cutter, to reconnoitre
the Bay.

The information of two pretended deserters, as to the position and
strength of batteries, and so forth, having proved perfectly
erroneous, on his return the commodore ordered the Frenchmen to be
searched; and then, on papers detailing the number and object of our
armament being found upon them both, he forthwith ordered them to be
put to death in the most summary manner.

Posted as sentinel on the poop of the _Brilliant_, I was in ignorance
of all this, and was treading to and fro carbine in hand, with my
eyes fixed on the rough and wooded shore of Brittany, when Captain
Lindsay came on deck, harnessed in full regimentals with sword and
gorget on.

"Well, Gauntlet," said he, "your two Frenchmen have, unfortunately,
proved to be impostors and spies, after all."

"Spies!" I reiterated, with some dismay.

"Yes; of the most dangerous kind."

"And what is to be done with them, sir?"

"That which the laws of war direct--ah! look yonder!"

He pointed to the _Essex_, the ship of the commodore, and a thrill of
horror ran through me, on beholding two human forms run up
simultaneously by the neck, to the arms of the foreyard, where they
dangled for a minute in mid-air; but they were not meant to be
hanged, as each had a cold thirty-two pound shot at his heels.

This must have been a pleasant spectacle for Thierry the pilot, who
was also a Frenchman, and consequently a traitor.

A gun was fired from the bow of the _Essex_; solemnly the echoes of
the sea and shore replied, and ere the last had died away, both
culprits had vanished under the waves, whose ripples closed over them
and left no trace behind.  Then, as the pale and fierce dark face of
Damien came in memory before me, I turned to my leader and said--

"Captain Lindsay, the fate of Damien forms a terrible sequel to the
story of his brother."

"That story was falsehood--all," replied the captain; "he was no
relation whatever of the famous would-be regicide, who was a peasant
of Artois.  The name of the spy was Theophile Hautois, not Damiens,
and he never was a privateersman, nor served under Thurot, but was a
forester of Brittany, and, as some suppose, a robber among the Menez
Mountains.  His whole narrative, so far as he was concerned, proves
an artful forgery, and, like his companion, he was a fully accredited
spy of the French authorities, employed to obtain information which
his lips can never render them now."

The boom of a second cannon now pealed across the Bay.

"The commodore has fired another gun and hoisted a signal," said an
officer close by.

The signal midshipman raised his telescope to the bunting which we
saw fluttering at the mainmast-head of the _Essex_.

"What is it now--what says the order?" asked several, with the
impatience and curiosity natural enough at such a time.

"All ships having flat-bottomed boats and landing-stages, _to hoist
them out_!" replied the middy, with a kindling eye.

"Bravo," added Captain Lindsay; "that seems like work!  Ere long we
shall have to look to our spurleathers and spatterdashes."



CHAPTER XVI.

THE LANDING AT CANCALLE.

It was very singular that though our armament had been visible off
the coasts of Normandy and Brittany for four days, no preparations
were made anywhere to oppose us.  A strong French fleet lay in the
harbour of Brest, but was there blocked up by the squadrons of Lord
Anson and Sir E. Hawke, so it might as well have been in the Yellow
Sea.

Just as the commodore's last signal concerning the boats was hoisted,
two troops of French cavalry, and a regiment of infantry, appeared on
the heights above the Bay of Cancalle, where we saw their
appointments and weapons glittering; but after a time they fell back
and disappeared inland.

The flat-bottomed boats were soon launched, and the grenadier
companies of eleven regiments rendezvoused on board of them, around
the _Essex_, the headquarter ship.

The commodore now shifted his broad pennant on board the _Success_, a
frigate of twenty-two guns, which got under weigh, and stood close
inshore to silence a battery of only _three_ guns, which had begun to
fire across the bay.

These were the first hostile shots I had heard; and I must own that
they caused my pulses to quicken, and created an undefined anxiety in
my heart; yet I had already stood fire, when so narrowly escaping
Abraham Clod's gun on the roof of old Wylie's stable, and that
adventure made me smile when I thought of it then.

Those three cannons--two 24's and one 12-pounder--were all we had as
yet to oppose, and they were in position at the landing-place of the
fisher-town or village of Cancalle, which consisted of a group of
picturesque little houses, situated at the base of a green hill that
overhangs the sea.

The French cannoniers who handled them were brave fellows, for they
killed several men on board the _Success_, nor were they silenced,
and the beach swept of the inhabitants, till the commodore's ship,
together with the _Rose_, _Flamborough_, and _Diligence_, opened
their broadsides to the land, and filled the whole bay with smoke,
making every rock and mountain echo to the reverberations of a
cannonade that lasted till seven in the evening, for we had a dread
of masked batteries among the shrubberies and hedgerows near the
shore.

Under cover of this fire, the flat-bottomed boats, with three
battalions of the Guards, and eleven grenadier companies of the Line,
commanded by Lord George Sackville (son of Lionel, Duke of Dorset)
and General Dury, rowed inwards, and landed on the beach in safety.

Those ships which contained the cavalry and artillery were now
ordered to draw closer inshore.  Our horses were slung over into the
flat-bottomed boats alongside--each trooper, fully accoutred,
standing in the wooden stall by his charger's head.  It was about
eleven at night before the light troop of the Greys, in four large
flat barges, put off for the harbour, towards which we were slowly
towed by the boats of the _Brilliant_.

The night was a lovely one.  High sailed the moon in heaven, with
clouds of fleecy whiteness flying past her silver disc.  The beach
and the blue sea were light as if at noonday, and on the far expanse
of yellow sand, in that secluded cove, where the aged oak and lime
trees spread their summer foliage on the ripples--sand so soft, so
smooth and golden that one could only think of nymphs or fairies
disporting in fantastic dances there--we were disembarking Horse,
Foot, and Artillery, with loaded arms and lighted matches, in all the
grim array of war.

Slowly the huge boats, with their freight of Cavalry crept inshore.
Streaming from behind the dark mountains, the moonlight fell in long
and tremulous lines of silver sheen, in which our weapons and the
trappings of man and horse glittered gaily, and the whole scene was
picturesque and impressive.

Each after each, the lights that whilome twinkled in the little town
went out, as we supposed the people were taking to flight, and soon
obscurity veiled it all, save where one or two tapers seemed to
indicate a sick room, or a student's vigil--if, indeed, at such a
time, one could be philosopher enough to study.

Our Foot, already formed in quarter distance columns, after their
colours were uncased, their flints and priming inspected, were silent
and still; thus, save the occasional neigh of our horses, as they
snuffed the land, with necks outstretched and nostrils quivering,
there was no sound along the bay, but the murmur of the rising tide,
when it chafed on the steep Rock of Cancalle.

Beside me stood Jack Charters, tall, erect, and soldier like.  One
hand grasped his horse's bridle, the other rested in the steel basket
hilt of his long broad sword.  With a keen, bright eye, and a proud
smile on his lip, he was looking at the shore, where--like myself--he
hoped to regain by bravery and courage the position he had lost by
his own youthful folly and the injustice of others.

At last we were alongside the rough pier of Cancalle, and some of
Kingsley's Grenadiers, who were ordered to assist in getting the
Cavalry and Artillery disembarked, ran the landing stages on board
for our horses.  The first of ours, on _terra firma_, mounted, and
sword in hand, was our gallant leader, Captain Frank Lindsay.

"Quick, my lads--get on shore and join the captain," said Charters,
who, although a corporal now, could not forget the authority he had
once wielded; "he is a man to stand by, for true it is that a good
officer to lead makes a good soldier to follow."

"Ay, ay," added Kirkton, as he, too, leaped joyously into his saddle,
and made his horse curvet, while he sung:--

    "'Tis he, you, or I,
    Cold, hot, wet, or dry,
  We're always bound to follow, boys,
    And scorn to fly."


"Fall in, my lads--fall in as you come ashore--and take up your
dressing by the standard," cried Captain Lindsay.

A seaman, a good-natured fellow, was assisting me with my horse
across the landing stage, when there was a whizzing sound, and a shot
that came, no one knew from where, shattered his right elbow.  He
uttered a groan, and would have fallen between the boat and pier, had
not Sergeant Duff, of the Greys, caught him in his arms.

"Never mind, mates," said he, cheerfully; "tie up the stump, some
one--I'm in for a pension at Chatham Chest, boys!"

I remember that my first emotion was a selfish thankfulness that the
shot had not struck _me_.

So strong was the ground by nature, in the neighbourhood of our
landing, that two thousand determined men might have cut to pieces
ten times their number from behind the thick hedgerows, the houses
and the rocks; yet we encountered not the slightest opposition, save
from the little battery already mentioned.

By the noon of the 6th of July, everything belonging to our small
army--its whole material of war--was ashore, and we encamped on an
eminence which was crowned by a picturesque old windmill.

It overlooked Cancalle, from whence the people--all hard-featured,
ungainly, and squalid-looking Bretons--had now entirely fled, leaving
their houses to the mercy of our soldiers and sailors, who pillaged
them of everything they could find or destroy.

On the night of the 6th, with twenty other Scots Greys, I was
detailed for out-picket; and under a Captain Wilmot Brook, of the
11th Light Dragoons, with twenty men of that regiment, all supplied
with one meal of cooked food for ourselves and forage for our horses,
we rode two miles to the front, on the road that leads from Cancalle
to St. Malo.  There the captain chose a position for his picket, and
threw out a line of videttes, whose orders were to keep a sharp
look-out, on peril of their lives; to fire their carbines on the
approach of any armed party, but to permit all persons who came
singly, bearing provisions for sale, to pass to their rear, without
exacting a fee for their passage--to observe well the country in
their front, and to communicate whatever they saw that seemed hostile
or suspicious, by signal or otherwise, to each other, and at once to
the officer in command of the outpost.

These orders were rhymed rapidly over to me about nightfall, and I
was left for a two hours' vigil, in a gloomy hollow way between two
hills, about eight hundred yards in front of the mainbody of the
picket.  This was my _first_ responsible duty, and it so nearly ended
in bringing me to a disgraceful and violent death, that the narration
of that night's adventure deserves a chapter to itself.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE VIDETTE.

To a young soldier few duties or situations are more trying than the
post of advanced sentinel by night, in a strange place and foreign
country, in time of war and danger--all the more so, perhaps, if the
said soldier be a Scotsman, imbued with some of those superstitions,
which few of his countrymen are without.

"Keep your ears and eyes open, young man," said Captain Brook as he
left me.  "Remember that you are not now a sentry at the gate of a
home-barrack, which no one thinks of attacking, but that you are an
advanced vidette, on whose vigilance and acuteness depend the safety
of the picket, the honour of the army, and hence, perhaps, of the
nation itself."

"Does he deem me stupid, or what?" thought I, with some pique, as he
rode off, accompanied by Sergeant Duff of ours, and I was left
alone--alone to my own reflections.

The moon which shone so brightly last night was now hidden by masses
of cloud, yet a few stray beams lighted the landscape at a distance.
In the immediate foreground, and around me, all was sunk in darkness
and obscurity; but after my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I
could make out the form of the two rugged eminences or hills which
overhung my post, and the pathway that wound from thence into the
defile between them.

Beyond that defile I could see the distant country, lighted at times,
as I have said, by the fitful gleams of the moon.

All was still and I heard only the champing of my horse upon his
powerful military bit, as I sat with the butt of my carbine planted
on my right thigh, gazing steadily at the darkened pass in my front.

The time passed slowly.

Twice I threw the reins across my left arm, and twice cocked and
levelled my carbine, for on each occasion figures seemed to enter the
pass, some on horseback and others on foot; but the next moment
showed them to be only fashioned by my overheated fancy, out of the
long weeds and nettles that waved to and fro on the night wind
between me and the faint moonlight beyond.

On each of these occasions I made a narrow escape; to have fired my
carbine would have drawn the whole line of pickets to the front, and
brought the entire army under arms; but then to give a _false_ alarm
is a crime to be punished, though not quite so severely as to omit an
alarm when necessary; so my position was sufficiently perplexing.

Silence, night, and loneliness induced reverie, and from the present
and from the future, memory carried me back to the past--that period
which possessed so little that was bright for me.

But a few months before, how little could I have imagined, or
anticipated, that I should become a soldier and be situated as I was
then--a lonely sentinel amid the mountains of Brittany!  I thought
with some growing repugnance of war, its cruelties and stern
necessities--the precipitate execution of the two unfortunate spies,
and the mangled corpses of the slain seamen, whom I had seen flung
like lumber from the lower deck ports of the _Success_, after she
engaged the battery in the Bay of Cancalle, and a shudder came over
me, for I was young to such work as this.

I thought of the green mountains of my native land--that lovely
Borderland, and its chain of hills that rise from sea to sea, between
the sister kingdoms, with their fertile glens where herd and hirsel
grazed in peace; where the brown eagle had his eyry in the grey
rocks, and the black raven soared high in mid-air or came swooping
down when the silvery salmon, or the spotted trout leaped up from the
plashing linn--the land where every cairn and wood, tower and tree,
had some wild or warlike legend of the past.

Old Netherwood, too, with the lazy rooks that cawed among its oaks,
or roosted on the creaking vanes of its time-worn turrets.  Then I
turned away my thoughts in anger to the secluded Border village,
where I had been so long a drudge, yea a very slave; but with the
memory of old Nathan's inky desk, came a pleasant vision of the
pretty little Ruth--Ruth whom I had well-nigh forgotten.

Was Ruth unmarried still?  Did she ever think of me?  I could almost
laugh at my first love already, for to this heresy will the mind come
at times, and in barracks I had reached it already.

And then Aurora--my gay and dashing cousin Aurora--the fair usurper
of all that was mine, did she ever think of me, and our race on
Banstead Downs?  And so, soaring away into the realms of fancy, I
forgot all about the pass in my front and the picket in my rear, till
the sudden and confused explosion of some twenty carbines about a
hundred yards distant, on my right, all flashing redly through the
darkness, gave me a start, a shock, as if struck by lightning; and
before I had time to think or act, there came the rush of many hoofs,
and then a party of French Hussars, all fleetly mounted, swept past
me from the rear, and fled towards the pass, pursued by our picket,
which was led by Captain Brook in person!  My horse reared wildly as
they all passed me, and for about ten minutes I remained irresolute
and ignorant what to do, until the captain with the main body of the
picket all safe and untouched, but breathless and highly excited,
came back at a hand gallop.

Now, for the first time I discovered that during my luckless reverie
a party of French light horse, commanded, it afterwards appeared, by
the Chevalier de Boisguiller, an officer of dashing bravery, had
crept past me at the distance of fifty yards or so, and unmolested
and unchallenged, had actually ridden so close to Brook's picket,
that they were first discovered by their sabres glittering in the
light of the watchfire, near which the captain was seated.

Brook's face was crimson, and his voice hoarse with rage and passion
when he accosted me, and in a minute more I found myself dismounted,
disarmed, and standing a prisoner before him, a dragoon being on each
side of me with his carbine loaded.

The captain was a handsome and soldierlike man, somewhere about
forty-five years of age, and the blue uniform of the 11th Light
Dragoons, faced and lapelled with buff to the waist, and richly laced
with gold, became him well.  His features, though naturally of a
grave and mild cast, were now stern, and his eyes sparkled with
anger.  I could see all this by the light of a torch, held by one of
the 11th, and I could perceive also that my comrades of the Greys
regarded me with aught but pleasant faces, as I had involved the
honour of the corps by my negligence.

"So--so--s'death, you are a fine fellow to act as a vidette!" began
the captain, with scorn and wrath in his tone; "thanks to you, we
have had an alert with a vengeance!  You are now aware, that while
asleep you have permitted a body of the enemy's cavalry to pass your
post--a body which, if strong enough, would have cut this picket to
pieces."

"Under favour, sir, I was not asleep," said I, firmly.

"Zounds, sirrah, it matters little!  But do you know what the
'Articles of War' say concerning conduct such as yours?"

I was silent.

"Shall I tell you?" asked the captain, earnestly, and in a lower tone.

"If you please."

"They state that any officer or soldier who shall shamefully abandon
any fortress, _post or guard_, committed to his charge, or who shall
be found sleeping on his post, whether upon the land or the sea,
shall suffer DEATH, or such other punishment as a court martial may
award."

I was so completely stunned by all this as to be incapable of speech;
but Duff of ours, a kind and grey-haired old sergeant, said--

"Captain Brook, the lad is a good lad, and a steady one; we have few
better in the Greys--"

"Then I am very sorry for the Greys!"

"I do hope, sir," continued the sergeant, "that his life, at least,
may not be forfeited?"

"My life!" I exclaimed, mechanically.

"Yes, that may be forfeited, and I disgraced!" said Captain Brook,
bitterly.  "I have commanded many a post, but never one that was
surprised before.  To-morrow I shall hand you over to the guard of
the provost marshal.  What is your name, fellow?"

"Basil Gauntlet."

On hearing this, he started and became so visibly affected, that the
soldiers of the picket who crowded round us holding their horses by
the bridle, glanced at each other with inquiry and surprise.  Brook
surveyed me keenly for a moment, and then a sorrowful frown seemed to
deepen on his features.

"Was your father ever in the service?" he asked, abruptly.

"He was an officer of Granby's Dragoons."

Then a malignant light sparkled in the eyes of Captain Brook, and he
struck his spurred heel into the turf.

"Was my father your friend?" I asked, with hesitation.

"Friend!" he reiterated, bitterly; "no--no--not my friend.  But your
mother, what of her?" he added, in an altered voice.

"She is in her grave," I replied, with faltering accent; "else,
perhaps, I had not stood before you thus to-night, a private soldier
and a prisoner."

After a pause--

"My God!" said Brook, in a low voice, as he took off his helmet and
passed a hand across his flushed brow.  Then seeming to recollect
himself, he said, "Fall back, sergeant; and fall back, men--picket
your horses, and lie down if you please till daybreak, when the
outpickets are called in.  Leave the prisoner with me.  Gauntlet," he
continued, after we were somewhat alone, "step with me this way.  I
shall do all in my power to serve you, and to be your friend."

"Sir, you astonish me," I exclaimed; "how am I so fortunate?"

"I will tell you a secret, boy--a secret long buried in my heart," he
continued, in a voice that grew soft and kind; "your father and I
were rivals--rivals for the love of the same girl, long, long years
ago; but he was the successful wooer--I the discarded one!  She was
your mother, boy, and now, for her sacred memory, and the memory,
too, of that early love, which brightened for a time the first days
of my soldiering, I will save you, my poor lad, if I can.  Nay more,
I have some interest at head-quarters, and will serve you as if you
had been my own son, and this will I do for _her_ sake."

The voice of Captain Brook trembled, and I bowed low, for I could not
speak.

"You know what the rules of the service prescribe," he resumed, "in
such a case as yours?"

"You have already told me, sir."

"Death!"

"Yes."

"Yet, you shall not die, and your future promotion shall be my
peculiar care.  Comrades," cried he, to the men of the picket, "in
Basil Gauntlet I have discovered the son of an early and dear friend.
He is but a young soldier--a mere boy, and I would save him if I can."

"You may command us, sir," said Sergeant Duff.

"We will do anything for you, Captain Brook," added the men of the
11th, with enthusiasm.

"I do not mean to report his dereliction of duty--so give me your
words that you will be silent in the matter."

"We swear it, sir!" they exclaimed, with energy, and that honest
pledge was never broken.

"Now, Basil Gauntlet," said Captain Brook, as he gave me back my
sword, and grasped my hand, while speaking rapidly and energetically;
"you, doubtless, have your father's courage and spirit of honour.
These are hereditary, and old Sir Basil could not _will them away_ as
he did the acres of Netherwood, the family pictures, and the silver
spoons.  Be a man, and a brave one, as your father was--I knew him
well and hated him--God rest him now, for all that.  To-morrow, I
shall see that you are taken out of the ranks; for, to-night, I can
but share with you the contents of my canteen."

An aide-de-camp now came galloping from Cancalle to inquire the
meaning of the firing.  Some explanation, I know not what, was made,
and so ended this remarkable episode, which had a gloomy sequel on
the morrow, when all the bright future, which the sudden friendship
of Captain Brook had opened to me, was rapidly overcast.

About noon the poor man was killed by a shot from a French
sharpshooter, as we were advancing through a thick wood.  Dr.
Lancelot Probe of ours was speedily at hand, but my new friend was
gone for ever, and I was one of those who assisted to wrap his
remains in a horse rug, and to inter them by the wayside, as we
marched towards St. Malo.



CHAPTER XVIII.

HALT AT ST. SERVAND.

During the 7th of June the whole force (save one regiment, which was
left at Cancalle to cover our re-embarkation, if necessary) marched
towards St. Malo, through a rough and woody country.  A dense mist
from the ocean enveloped the scenery for some miles inland, and
through this we were advancing when Captain Brook was killed.  The
soil seemed barren, with black sheep grazing among the rocks and
boulders; old and ruinous bridges lay across deep swamps and rugged
watercourses, that rushed towards the sea.  Without molestation we
passed several quaint, old manor houses, girdled by weedy fosses and
moss-grown oaks--and some whose embattled _porte cocher_ and grated
casements opened to long and shady avenues of sycamore trees.

Ere long, we came to more open parts of the country, covered with
pink heath and spotted with yellow flowers; in others, with fields,
snow white with the bloom of buckwheat.  In these flat places rose
here and there, exactly as in Scotland, great battle stones of the
Druids or the Celtic Bretons, that stood grim, grey, erect, solemn
and silent; and so a march of nine miles through scenery such as this
brought us in sight of St. Malo.

The men of our troop were so much occupied in scouring the district
through which the infantry advanced, covering both flanks,
reconnoitring and so forth, that it was not until sunset when our
small army encamped at the village of St. Servand, two miles from St.
Malo, that I had an opportunity of relating to my two chief friends,
Tom Kirkton and Jack Charters, the strange adventure of the preceding
night.

They listened to me with astonishment, as we sat by the foot of a
large tree under which our horses were stabled (if I may use such a
term), and where we were regaling ourselves with ration biscuits and
the contents of a gallon keg of French wine, of which Charters had
become proprietor on the march.

Around us the whole force, horse, foot, and artillery, were busy
cooking or preparing for the bivouac of the night.  Countless little
fires, lighted beside trees, hedges, and low walls, glared and
reddened in the evening wind, and when the dusk set in, they shed a
wavering gleam on the piles of arms that stood in long ranks, on the
white bell-tents and the red-coated groups that loitered near.  The
whole scene was picturesque, lively, and striking, and in the
distance lay the town and fortress of St. Malo, quaint and worn by
time and the misty storms that came from the open sea.

Its harbour is one of the best seaports in France, but is extremely
difficult of access.  The town is small, gloomy, and dull, but
populous and wealthy, and crowns a rock which the sea encompasses
twice daily--thus St. Malo is alternately insular and peninsular, as
the tide ebbs, flows, and churns in foam against its fetid rocks,
whereon the russet-brown seaweed rots in the sunshine; and far around
it lies a barrier of sharp white reefs, the foe of many a ship ere
beacons were invented.

It was guarded by a strong castle, flanked by great towers, on the
battlements of which the last light of the setting sun yet lingered
with a fiery gleam.  The town had usually a good garrison; but His
Grace the Duke of Marlborough had now learned that there were not
quite five hundred troops in the whole of this neglected province of
Brittany, which, though forming a portion of the kingdom of France,
had long been under its hereditary dukes, and was now governed by a
States General, with provincial privileges of its own.*


* It continued so until the Revolution in 1792.


For ages so separate had its interests been from those of France,
that James III. of Scotland was requested by Charles VIII. to send
thither a body of troops to capture and annex Brittany to his
northern kingdom but the Scottish parliament declined to sanction the
subjugation of a free people; so this strange scheme was abandoned.

A strong wall surrounded St. Malo, and every night twelve dogs of
great size and ferocity were led round it by a soldier of the city
watch, that their barking might give notice if brigands or an enemy
approached.

The last ray of sunlight soon faded upward from the cathedral spire
of St. Vincent, and the shades of twilight were already casting into
obscurity the rocky basement of the whole city and its weedy reefs
amid the chafing sea, when in a lonely part of our camp by St.
Servand my two comrades and I reclined on the turf beside our
accoutred horses, and drank the contents of the wine-keg, using one
horn--for we possessed but one--fraternally by turns.

"It is very true," continued Charters, with reference to my adventure
of the preceding night; "egad, friend Gauntlet, you had a narrow
escape!  In other hands--particularly those of old Preston--you had
assuredly been brought to the drum-head and had a volley of ten
carbines for dereliction of duty.  To fall asleep on one's post
before an enemy----"

"But I was _not_ asleep," I persisted.

"Well, well; but to let the enemy pass you----"

"I was thinking of other times, Jack."

"Very likely," said Kirkton; "on such a lonely duty, and at such a
time, by night, I have too often found the thoughts of other times,
and images of those I have loved or lost, who are dead, or far, far
away, all come unbidden before me."

"It is unwise to look back regretfully--for the past can never come
again.  Oh, never more!" continued Charters, sadly, as he thought of
some cherished episode of his own life; "so the wiser and the manlier
way is to improve the present (pass the keg, Tom), and look boldly at
the future."

"You are right, Jack," said I, as this military philosopher proceeded
to light his pipe and groom his horse, which he carefully covered
with his cloak; "but I fear it will be long before I can school
myself into your cool way of taking things.  I have seen but little
of the world, Jack, and have only learned to enjoy life since
embracing the profession which sets no value upon it."

"Time and travel will improve your views, my boy; and 'all travel,'
says Dr. Johnson, 'has its advantages; if it lead a man to a better
country, he learns to improve his own; if to a worse, to enjoy it.'
I have travelled much in my time--steady, old horse, steady!--and as
I did so with sundry rounds of ball cartridge at my back, I have
learned much that Dr. Johnson never thought of."

"In what way, Jack--to handle a dice-box and make love to the
barmaids?" asked Tom.

"I have learned more than that," retorted Charters, somewhat coldly;
"travel taught me to be charitable; for one finds good people
everywhere, abroad as well as at home, for as it takes a great many
men to make an army, so many people are required to make a nation."

"Bah!" shouted Tom Kirkton, who was in his shirt-sleeves and
attending to our cooking; "we have had enough of musty moralising.
This is like one of old father's sermons, poor man! and a sermon
sounds oddly in your mouth, Jack.  Here is a rasher of bacon, broiled
on a ramrod and done to a turn.  Come here while it is hot and
savoury, for we may say with the fool in the Scripture, 'Let us eat
and drink, for to-morrow we die.'"

"Boot and saddle!  To horse, you fellows there!" cried the loud and
authoritative voice of a staff officer as a strange sequel to Tom's
ominous speech.  He proved to be General Elliot, who was passing
through our bivouac at a hand gallop, accompanied by his
aide-de-camp, both plumed and aiguiletted.  "To horse--the Light
Dragoons!"

"Fall in--the Scots Greys!" added Captain Lindsay, coming up at a
trot; "we are ordered to the front."

So Tom's dainty rasher was eaten in a trice; the last of Charters's
wine was drained, the keg tossed into the nearest watch fire, we
sprang on our horses, and at the first ruffle on the kettle-drum,
formed line on the left of our standard.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE SACK OF ST. SOLIDORE.

Like all who are so subordinate in rank, we fell in and formed, in
total ignorance of where we were going, or what we were to do; who we
were to attack, or by whom we might be attacked; and, perhaps, not
caring much about the matter, provided we were to do something.

In the dusk the roll was called; the troop "proved" and formed in
column with the other light troops under Elliot, the future "Cock of
the Rock."  We loaded our carbines and pistols, and then the order
was given--

"Threes right--forward--trot!" and away we went.

Though we had been imbibing only French wine, we three comrades were
not in a very reputable condition; but, fortunately, this could not
be perceived in the twilight; though Charters was unusually lively,
and my skill was frequently tested, as I was generally the flanker of
a squadron, being completely master of my horse.

In the leading section of three, there was a gigantic trooper before
us, named Hob Elliot.

"By Jove, Hob, what a noble pair of shoulders you have!" said
Charters, as we trotted on; "what a mark your back will be for our
friends the French!"

"If they ever _see_ it," growled the Borderer, for he was a
Liddesdale man.

"Bravo, Gauntlet," hiccupped Charters, then turning to me; "head up,
and thumb on the bridle--you have quite the air of a soldier!"

"I always study to _be_ what I wish to seem," said I.

"So said Socrates," added Tom Kirkton, remembering his classics.

"Ugh! he quotes Socrates on the line of march."

"Well," rejoined Tom; "he was a private soldier like ourselves, and
saved the life of Xenophon."

"Be silent, my lads," said Captain Lindsay; "we have work in hand
that requires you to be so."

As we quitted our bivouac, I was more than ever struck with its
picturesque aspect.  Some regiments of infantry (among them the 8th,
20th, and 25th), which had not yet been ordered under arms, were
lying around their watchfires in a green clover field.  These fires
could not have been less than ninety or a hundred in number, and
their united glare fell redly on the sunburned faces and scarlet
uniforms of the scattered groups who sat around them; on the lines of
those who lay asleep with their knapsacks for pillows; on the long
rows of muskets, piled with bayonets fixed, and on the silk colours,
that drooped before the guarded tent of each commanding officer.

Beyond these were the dark figures of the active artillery, limbering
up, tracing their horses to the field guns, and preparing for
immediate service; and as fresh fuel was cast on those watchfires,
and the weird light flared up anew, it brought out in strong relief
objects at a greater distance; trees and rocks were visible for a
time, and then, as the flame wavered and sunk, they faded into
obscurity.  Add to all this, that the night was intensely dark, and
the atmosphere dense and sulphury.

Nor moon nor star were visible; the wind was still, and the flames of
the crackling watchfires burned steadily and high.

"Where are we going--what are we to be about?" we now inquired of
each other as we rode on; and ere long, from mouth to mouth, as the
staff officers, perhaps, unwisely informed those commanding troops,
and these, in turn their subs, we learned that the Duke of
Marlborough had, during the day, reconnoitred the harbour and suburbs
of St. Malo, with the shipping and government stores, and had
resolved on their destruction; so we were now to cover the advance of
a body of infantry and artillery who were to perform this duty, with
shot, shell, and hand grenades.

While advancing, I overheard Captain Lindsay say to Cornet Keith of
ours--

"Marlborough has heard that the youngest and favourite daughter of
the Marshal de Broglie, who now commands in Germany, resides in a
chateau near St. Malo; and he thinks she would prove an important
capture."

"Nay--pshaw--zounds, gallantry forbid!" responded the cornet, who was
carrying the standard.

"I heard him say he would give a hundred and fifty guineas for her,"
continued Lindsay.

"For what purpose?" asked Keith, laughing.

"To send to London as a trophy, like the brass guns we hope to take
at Cherbourg."

"A sorry capture, unless the girl is beautiful."

After proceeding about half a mile, our troop was ordered to press
forward to the front, while the others reined up; then, as the
artillery halted, and the deep hollow rumbling of the wheels and
shot-laden tumbrils ceased, we could hear the flowing tide chafing in
the dark on the bluff rocks of St. Malo, and, ere long, we saw the
red lights that twinkled in its streets and fortress which towered
above the ocean.

Girt as it was by deep waves and lofty walls, "the city of the
corsairs," as some one names it, was secure from us then; so we rode
on till we reached an open space, when the order came to form line on
the leading section, and then the whizz, whizz, whizzing of balls,
together with the rapid flashing of carbines in front, announced that
the foe was before us.

My temples throbbed; there was a wild glow in my heart, and then an
emotion of terror, as a bullet struck me fairly in the centre of the
breast, above my pouch belt.  For an instant I thought it was through
me, and breathlessly dropped my reins; then, instinctively, I placed
my hand within my coat, and expecting to find it covered with blood,
drew forth--what?  Aurora's handkerchief.  It had saved me from the
ball, which pierced my coat, though half spent.

I pressed it to my parched lips in gratitude; and perfume was
lingering about it still.  I had scarcely replaced it and recovered
my equanimity, when I heard the clear, firm voice of Captain Lindsay,
as he rode to the front, with young Keith by his side, carrying the
standard advanced.

"Cavalry are before us, and we must clear the way.  March--trot! keep
your horses well in hand--press on by leg and spur!"

We advanced, with drawn swords, the troop riding on, boot to boot,
and thigh to thigh--moving like a living wall.  Then rapidly followed
the words--

"Gallop--_charge!_" mingling with the sharp blast of the trumpet, and
totally ignorant of what was amid the darkness in our front, whether
a column of cavalry, a yawning chasm, or a stone rampart, we rushed
blindly and furiously on with a loud and ringing cheer.

We charged with tremendous force, and in the heat, hurry, and
confusion of such a moment, performed at racing speed, I sat in my
saddle and guided my horse with a combined coolness and steadiness
that certainly resulted from mere instinct or force of habit, rather
than reason.  I felt as in a dream, till suddenly, out of the
darkness in front, there came before me a line of horses' heads, with
another line of human faces, and uplifted swords above them.  Then
there was a wild crash, as if the earth had opened, when horse and
man went tumbling under us, as we swept over the enemy, cutting and
treading them down.

"Tuè!  Tuè!" cried they; "St. Malo for Brittany!"  But their
provincial patron availed them not.

They proved to be a mere handful of hussars, led by the Chevalier de
Boisguiller, who was nearly killed by the sword of Charters; but
escaped by having an iron calotte cap within his fur cap.  We lost
only three men in this charge; but found nine of the enemy lying dead
on the ground next day.

In vain the Chevalier, an officer of the most romantic courage,
endeavoured to rally his men.

"_En avant, mes camarades--Mes enfans, en avant!_" we heard him
shout, while brandishing his sabre; "_Voilà--voilà, c'est la voye à
l'honneur, à la gloire, à la victoire!  Vive le Roi!_"

As they fled there was no pursuit, for the trumpet sounded to recal
stragglers.

Then we reformed line and wheeled back, to permit the infantry and
artillery to pass to the front.  After this, our orders were simply
to guard and patrol the approaches to St. Solidore, against which our
comrades on foot commenced the most active operations.

I have no intention of detailing the whole of these, nor could I do
so, perhaps, if willing; but never shall I forget the splendour of
the terrible scene which ensued, when the fires of destruction spread
along the suburbs of St. Solidore and St. Servand, and all around the
harbour of St. Malo.

Through the dark sky we saw the shells fired by our artillery
describing long arcs of light, and bursting like fiery stars or
flaming comets among the rigging of the ships in the basin, or on the
roofs of the stores and houses on the quay.  Then the shrieks and
cries of the fugitive people came towards us through the still night
air, together with the incessant explosion of the hand grenades,
which our grenadiers, as they advanced alongside the ships, threw
point blank on their decks, and down the open hatchways.

The most deadly missiles were the _anchor balls_, fired by our
artillery.

These were filled with powder, saltpetre, sulphur, resin, and
turpentine, and had an iron bar, one half of which was within and the
other outside the shell.  The latter half was armed with a
grappling-hook, which caught the rigging of the ships, or the walls
or roofs of houses, as the heaviest end flew foremost, and by these
chiefly the whole place was soon sheeted with flaming pyramids, amid
which we saw walls crumbling and descending, and masts and yards
disappearing amid mountains of sparks and burning brands, while
torrents of red fire poured from every door and window round the
whole circle of the harbour.

The sky was full of red clouds and sheets of red sparks; the harbour
and the bay beyond were all ruddied, as if changed to port wine, and
the whole air became filled with roaring flame.

High over all this towered St. Malo on its rock, and on its embattled
walls, its gothic spires and storm-beaten cliffs, redly fell the
glare of destruction; while at times we heard the barking of the
watch dogs, and could see the gleam of arms along the ramparts, for
every citizen was in harness, and from mouth to mouth went the cry.

"St. Malo for Brittany! the women to their homes, and the men to
their muskets!"

But, though they knew it not, we had no idea then of assailing a
place so strong by art and nature.

The naval storehouses, full of sails, ropes, tar, pitch, oil, paint
and powder, blazed the whole night, exhibiting every variety of
prismatic colours, but ere morning, ships, houses, and magazines were
all confounded in one mass of charred and blackened ashes.

We destroyed in the docks and in the harbour thirteen vessels of war,
mounting two hundred and thirty-four guns, with seventy-three
merchant ships, and £800,000 worth of property, after which we
retired with the loss of only twelve men, three of whom were seamen,
killed by a single random shot from St. Malo.

During this wild scene, there was something singular, almost
touching, in the terror of the poor birds, when the air became alive
with soaring and bursting shells, with showers of shot, thick with
smoke, laden with the booming of the ordnance and the ceaseless roar
of the conflagration.

Crows, larks, pigeons, and sparrows seemed to become paralysed by
fear; they fluttered, panted, and grovelled among the long grass and
under the hedgerows, in some instances crouching and hiding
themselves in little coveys close to the dead and wounded Hussars
(who lay where we had charged), as if to rebuke the spirit in man
that made of earth a hell!

And so thought I, when weary, wan, and pale, I retired with the troop
towards our camp on the hills of Paramé.



CHAPTER XX.

AN EPISODE.

As the column of light cavalry wheeled off by sections to return to
the camp and bivouac, a staff officer who was riding hurriedly past
in the dark addressed me--

"Young man," said he, "do you see those lights twinkling in the
hollow yonder?"

"Yes, sir; the port fires of the artillery."

"Exactly; ride with all speed to the officer commanding the brigade
of guns, and say it is the order of General Elliot that he falls back
at once towards the hills of Paramé."

I bowed, for the speaker was the general in person.

To execute this order, I had to ride nearly a mile to the rear,
skirting the wide stretch of sand that lies between St. Malo and St.
Servand.  The morning was still quite dark, and the fires yet
smouldered redly in the dockyards and harbour, while a heavy smoke
and odour of burning loaded the air, which was very still and
oppressive.

I rode towards the place, where the matches of the artillery shone
brilliantly; but I had scarcely reached the flank of the brigade,
when the whole force got into motion at a rapid trot, the gunners on
their seats, and the drivers plying well their whips, as they wheeled
off towards the hills with a tremendous noise, chains, shot, rammers,
spunges, and buckets all swinging and clattering.  Thus I had no
occasion to deliver the anticipated orders of General Elliot; but as
the artillerymen were driving with such fury, I reined up to let them
pass, and followed leisurely in their rear.

Day was now beginning to break, and the summits of the hills and the
spires of the city of St. Malo--in the dark ages the abode of saints,
in more modern times the asylum of criminals--were brightening in the
ruddy gloom; but smoke hung like a sombre pall over all the harbour
below.

From time to time I could hear in the distance the hollow bay of the
fierce dogs which watched the city walls, a custom that was not
abolished until 1770, when one night they tore to pieces and devoured
a naval officer.

The sound of water plashing by the wayside drew my horse towards it.
The poor animal was thirsty after the long and weary patrol duty of
the past night.  The stream poured from a rock, and through a
moss-green wooden duct fell into the stone basin of a wayside well,
and there, while my horse drunk long and thirstily, I heard the
rumble of the artillery as they passed away among the echoing
mountains and I was left alone in the rear.

By the roadside near the fountain, there grew a dense thicket of
mulberry trees and wild broom-bushes, from amid which--just as I was
turning my horse to ride off--there rung a half-stifled cry, followed
by a fierce and very unmistakeable malediction in French--for that
language, and not the old Armoric, is spoken by the Bretons of Dol
and St. Malo.

Supposing that some unfortunate English straggler or wounded man
might be lying there at the mercy of some of the enemy, I drew a
pistol from my holsters and dismounted.  My horse was so well
trained, that I knew he would remain where I left him, while
penetrating into the thicket.  The gloom of the latter was excessive,
but day was breaking, and a faint light stole between the slender
stems of the trees.

Two figures now appeared--those of a man and woman.  Having come
close upon them unobserved, I now shrunk behind a bush to watch.  The
woman was on her knees, and her left shoulder reclined against the
root of a tree; her whole attitude indicated weariness or despair, or
both together.  Her hands were tied with a scarf or handkerchief, and
her dark hair hung over her face so as to conceal her features
entirely.  Close by her, and with one hand resting against the same
tree, the man stood erect, but looking down, and surveying her with
some solicitude, or at least with interest.  He wore a peasant's
frock of blue linen, girt at the waist by a belt with a square
buckle.  He was armed with a small hatchet and _couteau de chasse_,
and carried in his right hand a knotted cudgel.

They were quite silent; at least I heard only from time to time the
half-stifled sobs of the female.

"Here is some mystery or premeditated mischief," thought I; "let me
watch warily."

At last the woman said faintly--

"Release me!"

The man uttered a growling guttural laugh.

"Release me, I implore you!" she continued in a voice of great
softness and pathos.

"For the hundredth time you have thus implored me, mademoiselle, and
for the hundredth time I reply--never."

"My father----"

"_Tonnerre de Ciel!_ don't speak to me of your father," said the man,
grinding his teeth; "I was an honest woodcutter in the Black Forest
of Hunandaye till he ruined me."

"Impossible! my good father is incapable of such a thing."

"Nothing is impossible to dukes and peers of France, who have the
Bastille and the dungeons of their own chateaux at their command."

"But he ruined you?  Alas! how?"

"By permitting his nephew--the Comte de Bourgneuf--to carry off my
sister; and because I resented the act, he had my cottage demolished,
my mother driven into the forest where she was devoured by wolves,
and myself he chained to work like a felon on the roads and ramparts
of St. Malo and the aqueducts at Dol."

"Alas! monsieur, I swear to you that my father was blameless in all
this, and even were it not so, why are you so merciless to me--why
make me thus your prisoner?"

"Because you are beautiful," said the fellow, with a grating laugh.
"Despite these wrongs, I risked my life for France, or rather for
French gold.  I have been at the bottom of the sea, _pardieu!_ and am
now on firm land.  I have been dead, and am come alive again!  Ha!
ha!  Bourgneuf carried off my sister.  I carry off you--_chacun à son
gout_--(every man to his taste.")

"Ah! have mercy.  See how I weep."

"Of course; weeping is a complaint that is very common among women.
The count took my sister to Paris, and she was never heard of again.
I shall take you to the Black Forest of Hunandaye, and never shall
you be heard of either, unless your friends are rash enough to seek
you in the subterranean torrent of St. Aubin du Cormier."

"This fellow is mad; but whether mad or not, I must save the poor
girl at all hazards," thought I, while shaking the priming in the pan
of my holster pistol.

"Have you no dread of punishment, for thus daring to molest me?"
demanded the lady.

"No.  Neither here nor hereafter.  You shall live with me in the
forest, and when tired of you----"

"I shall escape and proclaim you."

"_Pardieu!_ you won't, my beauty; because I shall kill you, and your
disappearance will, like the king's ships, be set down to the score
of these pestilent English, who have come hither to turn our Brittany
upside down.  Besides, who knows that _I_ have carried you off?"

"And you will kill me--I, who never harmed you in thought, in word,
or deed?" said she, with a shudder.

"Yes," he hissed through his clenched teeth.

"Oh, horror!  Will no one rescue me?"

"_Oui!  Sacré!_  Kill you quietly and secretly, even as I killed
quietly and surely the English captain of the Chevaux Legers in the
wood near Cancalle yesterday."

I started on hearing this, for the assassin of poor Captain Brook of
the 11th was now covered by the muzzle of _my_ weapon.  The speaker
was a tall, rawboned fellow, whose form exhibited great strength and
stature; he had a shambling gait, and a dirty visage of a very
bilious complexion.  His hair was black and shaggy; he had dark
lacklustre eyes and large, fierce, blubberlike lips, yellowed as his
broken fangs were by coarse tobacco juice.  I had somewhere before
seen this hideous face, the features of which gradually came to view
as the increasing light stole gradually through the mulberry wood.
How was it that this countenance, so pale and repulsive, the forehead
which receded like that of a hound, the immense frontal bones, and
the square jaw like that of a tiger, were in some sort not unfamiliar
to me?

Though torn and in wild disorder, the dress of his prisoner, grey
silk brocaded with white, evinced that she was of some rank, and her
arms, which her tattered sleeves displayed almost to the shoulder,
were beautiful in form and of exceeding delicacy.

"_Nombril de Belzebub!_" said he, suddenly, as he ground his teeth.
"Come, come, we've had enough of this.  Let us begone, lest those
English wolves return."

Then the girl uttered a pitiful cry, as his huge knotty hand grasped
her slender wrists.

"Kill me now!" she implored; "for mercy's sake, kill me now!"

"By no means, my beauty--you must first see the black dingles of
Hunandaye.  I may kiss you as often as you please, but as for
killing, until I weary of you, _pardieu!_ there is no chance of that."

He was now proceeding to drag her along the ground, when I rushed
forward, and by a blow of my sword, felled the savage to the ground.
A small cap of thick fur which he wore saved him from being cut, but
not from the weight of a stunning blow.

With a dreadful Breton oath he leaped up, and with uplifted cudgel
was springing on me, when on seeing my levelled pistol he paused and
shrunk back, with a terrible expression of baffled rage and ferocity
in his eyes.

Judge then of my astonishment on recognising in this hideous fellow
the pretended French deserter, the spy, Theophile Damien or Hautois,
whom I had met at Portsmouth--whom I had seen run up to the yardarm
of the _Essex_, and from thence consigned to the deep with a cold
thirty-two pound shot at his heels!



CHAPTER XXI.

JACQUELINE.

Had this man a charmed life? was he a vampire, a devil, or what?
thought I, as we surveyed each other, and I have no doubt he
recognised me, as he had seen me thrice before.  I released the
lady's hands from the handkerchief which bound them, and then raised
her from the ground.

Hautois again lifted his bludgeon menacingly, but lowered it when I
levelled my pistol straight at his head.

"Pass on, fellow--begone," said I, "or I shall pistol you without
mercy.  After our work last night, you cannot imagine that taking a
Frenchman's life--especially yours--is a matter of much importance to
me."

"_Sangdieu!_" he growled, "what business have you to interfere here?"

"Business--rascal!"

"Yes--this woman is my wife, who wishes to run away from me."

"Oh, horror! oh, absurdity!" exclaimed the young lady, as she
gathered her dark hair back from her face with her pretty hands, and
shrunk close to me.

"_Sangdieu_--yes, my wife, I tell you," shouted the fellow, with a
hand on the _couteau de chasse_ in his girdle; but I replied--

"I have overheard enough to prove that you lie, villain; so begone at
once, I say, or be punished as you deserve.  Come, madam, permit me
to assist you; my horse is close by, and from our camp at Paramé you
shall have a safe escort to your home."

She took my proffered hand with a very mingled or doubtful expression
of face, for I was a stranger, a soldier, an enemy; but she had only
a choice of evils, and knew that probably she could not fall into
worse hands than those from which I took her.  Then as I was leading
her away, with her dark eyes fixed in terror and aversion on Hautois,
she uttered a shrill cry which made me start and turn round; and I
did so just in time to escape a deadly thrust aimed at my back.
Indeed, the sharp blade of the _couteau de chasse_ passed through my
coat, grazing my left ribs, and almost severing my buff waist-belt.

Exasperated by this, I resolved to pistol the ruffian at once, and
shot him through the jaws.  On this, he fell on his face, wallowing
in blood, and rolled among the long grass, with his hands pressed
upon the wound in each cheek.  The wretch was only wounded, however,
not killed.  The girl whom I had rescued was fainting with terror at
this scene, so I hurried her off to where my horse still stood
quietly by the wayside well.

Day had completely broken now, and I could perceive that my fair
companion was undoubtedly a young lady of great beauty and polished
manners.  She was ghastly pale, doubtless with the terrors of the
past night, and the extreme darkness of her hair and eyes served but
to increase, by contrast, the pallor of her complexion.  Her hands,
which were without gloves, proved her high breeding and delicate
nurture, by their charming form and whiteness.  The morning air was
chill and damp, for the dews of night yet gemmed every leaf and blade
of grass; and she shuddered with cold or fear, for she was without a
head-dress, and her general attire was rather thin and scanty.

"You will permit me," said I, taking the cloak from my saddle and
wrapping it round her; "and now say, to where can I escort you?"

"Not to the British camp, if possible, I pray you," she replied,
while beginning to weep freely.

"I dare not be absent long," said I; "my duty leads me there, and by
straggling, or loitering here----"

"True--true, _ah, mon Dieu!_ how selfish of me! you risk your life,
perhaps, at the hands of our exasperated peasantry."

"Madam, I risk my life daily for a trooper's pay," said I, smiling:
"so freely may I peril it for one so--so lovely as you."

She coloured at this reply, and drew back, on which I added, with a
low bow, while my cheek reddened also--

"Pardon me--I forget myself."

"This is not the bearing or the language of an English private
soldier," said she, approaching me again, placing her pretty hand
upon my arm, and looking pleadingly in my face.

"Madam, though but a _simple soldat--un Ecossais Gris_, I am a
gentleman, and have never done aught to disgrace my name."

"Then you will protect me, sir, will you not?"

"As I have already done, at the peril of my life."

"And _not_ take me to the camp?"

"Not if safer shelter can be found."

"Even if I tell you who I am?" she continued, with a proud smile.

"Yes; but who----"

"I am the daughter of a French soldier."

"Thus you have an additional claim on my honour, madam."

"Mademoiselle--I am unmarried," she urged, with the faintest approach
to coquetry in her dark eyes.

"And the daughter of a soldier, say you?"

"Le Maréchal Duc de Broglie."

"Who now commands in Germany?" I continued, with growing interest.

"The same, monsieur."

The scrap of conversation I had overheard between Captain Lindsay and
Cornet Keith, during the night march, now flashed upon my memory.

"Pray tell no one else who you are," said I, hurriedly, while looking
around me.

"_Pourquoi, monsieur?_" she asked, with almost hauteur.

"Because I heard an officer of rank say, that he would give a hundred
and fifty English guineas to have you taken prisoner, and sent to
London as a trophy."

She trembled and shrunk back on hearing this, lifting up her white
hands deprecatingly.

"Oh be not alarmed, Mademoiselle de Broglie," said I, "for I would
rather die than betray you."

"And how much may this reward be in French money?"

"About two thousand livres."

"Two thousand livres," she exclaimed, with a haughty laugh and a
flashing eye; "they hold me cheap, indeed, who offer this!"

"Pardon me, mademoiselle," said I, anxiously, "but I have no time to
lose in having you conveyed to a place of safety.  If absent from
morning roll call, my punishment will not be slight.  The peasantry
have all fled inland----"

"But surely in some farmhouse or cottage I may find shelter."

"How comes it to pass the ruffian Hautois is still alive?" I asked,
as we walked along the road with the bridle of my horse over my arm.
"He was cast into the sea from the yard-arm of our commodore's ship,
with a cannon shot at his heels."

"From which the shot parted, by the rope giving way, as he sank into
the water."

"Parted?"

"_Oui, monsieur_; so he told me; and thereupon he immediately rose to
the surface and swam to the shore, while his less fortunate companion
was instantly drowned."

"And how came you to be in his power? pardon my curiosity."

"It is most natural; I shall tell you, monsieur.  Fearing that the
province was to be overrun by your troops, we left our Chateau of
Bourgneuf----"

"We, mademoiselle?"

"My aunt, Madame de Bourgneuf, and myself, to take shelter in the
city of St. Malo; but our carriage arrived at St. Solidore too late
last night, and Captain de Boisguiller, commandant of the redoubt at
Cancalle----"

"Ah, that little redoubt cost us some trouble."

"Gave us his own residence.  You know what ensued.  Cannon shot fell
through the roof of the house, on which my aunt, our servants, and I
rushed forth into the streets, and were separated by a crowd of
terrified fugitives.  Ignorant alike whither to turn my steps, or
where to seek shelter, while shells were bursting, flaming rockets
and hand-grenades flying about in every direction, I rushed into a
lonely alley, where I met a man who, by his attire, seemed to be one
of our Breton peasantry--a woodcutter; but ah, _mon Dieu!_ he proved
to be that wretch, Theophile Hautois.  Politely enough he offered to
conduct me to a place of safety, and led me from St. Solidore, away
out into the fields, where the country was open and lonely.  There he
spoke of love, and attempted to kiss and caress me; but I resisted,
though sinking with terror, and struck him in the face with my
clenched hand.  Then he grew enraged, and tying my wrists, dragged me
into that mulberry grove, where heaven surely sent you to my rescue."

"I am, indeed, most fortunate in having been of such service to you,
mademoiselle; and I shall ever remember with pride that I have seen
and had the honour of speaking with a daughter of the great Marshal
de Broglie, the hero of Sangerhausen."

She bowed and coloured with pleasure; but when the sound of wheels
was heard, she clasped her hands and exclaimed--

"_Ah, mon Dieu_, how fortunate!  Now, my kind friend, you shall be
relieved of all further trouble with me, for here comes good and kind
Father Celestine, le Curé of St. Solidore."

While she spoke, a _désobligeant_ (as those small chaises which hold
only one person are not incorrectly named in France) was driven
rapidly along the road; but the driver pulled up when my companion
called to him by name:

"Jacquot--Jacquot Tricot--where is M. le Curé?"

"Here, mademoiselle.  Oh, _Clementissime Jesu!_ what has happened?
how are you here?--who is this man?--why in such company? and who has
dared--what has he done to you? my dear child, Jacqueline, what is
the meaning of all this?" cried an old gentleman, all in a breath, as
he opened the door of the désobligeant and sprang agilely out.  As he
approached us, hat in hand, and bowing low at every pace, I could see
that he was a fine looking old man--a priest, evidently, as he wore a
black silk soutan, with at least fifty little buttons in front; he
wore also a tippet and small gold cross, and had his white hair tied
behind by a black ribbon.  His pale countenance was mild and
pleasing, though he surveyed me with an expression of eye which
evinced that he had no particular desire to cultivate _my_
acquaintance; and maitre Jacquot from his box regarded me with
undisguised animosity and alarm.

"Ah, dearest Père Celestine," said the young lady, clasping his
proffered hand between both of hers, "I have been saved from great
peril by this kind soldier; but take me away with you--oh, take me
away--and I shall tell you all about it."

"Kind--ha--hum.  _Monsieur le Soldat_, I thank you," said the Curé,
making a bow so profound, that a cloud of hair-powder flew about his
head, and his little cocked hat, which he was too polite to assume
before a lady, swept the road in his right hand; "from my soul I
thank you, for Mademoiselle Jacqueline is my dearest child."

"Have I the honour of addressing----" I began, for this phraseology
bewildered me.

"Le Père Celestine," said Mademoiselle de Broglie; "so I am now in
perfect safety, thanks to your kindness and courage, monsieur; and
now permit me to offer you that reward which any soldier may accept
without reproach."

She drew a ring from her finger, and placed it in my hand, saying,
with a bright coquettish smile--

"There is a language of precious stones, as well as of beautiful
flowers, and if learned in such matters, you will know what this gem
is significant of."

The old clergyman waved his hat, and laughed with great good humour,
while the graceful girl bowed to me again and again as he handed her
into the dèsobligeant and shut the door.  The Curé then placed his
hat on his head, for the first time during our interview, and with
true French gallantry sprang on the narrow footboard behind his
little carriage, which was rapidly driven off, Jacquot evincing, by
his lavish use of the whip, his desire to place as great a distance
as possible between himself and me.

The whole affair was like a dream.  I placed the ring on my smallest
finger, and thought with delight of the lovely little hand from which
it had just been drawn.  I gave a lingering glance after the
fast-retreating _dèsobligeant_, which was bowling along the road
towards the ruined village of St. Solidore, and then, springing into
my saddle, galloped in the direction of our camp, the white tents of
which were shining in the rising sun, as they dotted the southern
slope of the hills of Paramé.

The stone was a fine emerald.

"Of what is it significant?" thought I, remembering her words and her
charming smile.

Charters, whom I met with three mounted Greys, coming in search of
me, by order of the adjutant, told me that, "according to an old
superstition, the emerald was supposed to ensure success in love."

Be that as it may, this gift of Jacqueline de Broglie has yet an
important part to play in the story of my adventures.



END OF VOL. I.



  LONDON:
  SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS,
  CHANDOS-STREET.





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