Squire, not being versed in the Tongues of
Almaine (and, indeed, High Dutch and Low Dutch are both very Base
Parlance, and I never could master 'em), answers, "_Non comprenny_,"
which was his general reply when he was puzzled in the Foreign Lingos.
Then the old Lord, with a very sharp voice and in French, tells him that
he has no Business there, and bids him begone. Mr. Pinchin could
understand French, though he spoke it but indifferently; but he, being
fairly Primed, and in one of his Obstinate Moods, musters up his best
parleyvoo, and tells the Ancient with the Golden Key (and I saw that he
had another one hung round his neck by a parcel chain, and conjectured
him to be a High Chamberlain at least) to go to the Devil. (I ask pardon
for this word.) Hereupon my Lord with the Sheep's countenance collars
him, runs his white stick into his visage, so that the key nearly puts
his eye out, and roars for the Guard. Then Mr. Pinchin, according to his
custom when he has gotten himself into a pother, begins to squeal for
Me, and the Chaplain, and his Mamma, to help him out of it. My blood
was up in a moment; I had not had a Tussle with any one for a long time.
"Shall I who have brained an English Grenadier sneak off before a
rabble-rout of Sauerkraut Soldiers?" I asked myself, remembering how
much Stronger and Older I had grown since that night. "Here goes, Jack
Dangerous!" and away I went into the throng, wrenched the white staff
from the old Lord's hand, made him unhand my Master, and drawing his
Sword for him (he being too terrified to draw it himself), grasped him
firmly by the arm, and was preparing to cut a way back for both of us
through the crowd. But 'twas a mad attempt. Up came the Guard, every man
of them Six Foot high, and for all they were Sauerkraut Soldiers,
pestilent Veterans who knew what Fighting meant. When I saw their fixed
Bayonets, and their Mustachios curling with rage, I remembered a certain
Scar I had left on me after a memorable night in Charlwood Chase. We
were far from our own country, and there was no Demijohn of Brandy by;
so, though it went sore against my Stomach, there was no help for it
but to surrender ourselves at once Prisoners of War. Prisoners of War,
forsooth! They treated us worse than Galley Slaves. Our hands were bound
behind us with cords, Halters were put about our necks, and, the
Grenadiers prodding us behind with their bayonets,--the Dastards, so to
prick Unarmed Men!--we were conduct