preposterous, and we went rather late to bed.

And the next morning, too, I am afraid, we were rather late for
breakfast. Just as we were sitting down, in came Captain Brentwood.

"Hallo," said the Major; "what brings you back so soon, old friend.
Nothing the matter I hope?"

"Nothing but business," he replied. "I am going on to Dickson's, and I
shall be back home to-night, I hope. I am glad to find you so late, as
I have had no breakfast, and have ridden ten miles."

He took breakfast with us and went on. The morning passed somewhat
heavily, as a morning is apt to do, after sitting up late and drinking
punch. Towards noon Desborough said,--

"Now, if anybody will confess that he drank just three drops too much
punch last night, I will do the same. Mrs. Buckley, my dear lady, I
hope you will order plenty of pale ale for lunch."

Lunch passed pleasantly enough, and afterwards the Major, telling Sam
to move a table outside into the verandah, disappeared, and soon came
back with a very "curious" bottle of Madeira. We sat then in the
verandah smoking for about a quarter of an hour.

I remember every word that was spoken, and every trivial circumstance
that happened during that quarter of an hour; they are burnt into my
memory as if by fire. The Doctor was raving about English poetry, as
usual, saying, however, that the modern English poets, good as they
were, had lost the power of melody a good deal. This the Major denied,
quoting:--

"By torch and trumpet fast array'd."

"Fifty such lines, sir, are not worth one of Milton's," said the Doctor.

"'The trumpet spake not to the armed throng.'

"There's melody for you; there's a blare and a clang; there's a----"

I heard no more. Mrs. Buckley's French clock, in the house behind,
chimed three quarters past one, and I heard a sound of two persons
coming quickly through the house.

Can you tell the step of him who brings evil tidings? I think I can. At
all events, I felt my heart grow cold when I heard those footsteps. I
heard them coming through the house, across the boarded floor. The one
was a rapid, firm, military footstep, accompanied with the clicking of
a spur, and the other was unmistakably the "pad, pad" of a blackfellow.

We all turned round and looked at the door. There stood the sergeant of
Desborough's troopers, pale and silent, and close behind him, clinging
to him as if for protection, was the lithe naked figure of a black lad,
looking