s
very combat of Chiclana, or Barossa as you call it. I was in the Eighth
of the Line; we lost the eagle of the First Battalion, more betoken, but
it cost you dear. Well, we had repulsed more charges than I care to
count, when your 87th Regiment came on at a foot's pace, very slow but
very steady; in front of them a mounted officer, his hat in his hand,
white-haired, and talking very quietly to the battalions. Our Major,
Vigo-Roussillon, set spurs to his horse and galloped out to sabre him,
but seeing him an old man, very handsome, and as composed as if he were
in a coffee-house, lost heart and galloped back again. Only, you see,
they had been very close together for the moment, and looked each other
in the eyes. Soon after the Major was wounded, taken prisoner, and
carried into Cadiz. One fine day they announced to him the visit of the
General, Sir Thomas Graham. 'Well, sir,' said the General, taking him by
the hand, 'I think we were face to face upon the field.' It was the
white-haired officer!"

"Ah!" cried the boy; his eyes were burning.

"Well, and here is the point," I continued. "Sir Thomas fed the Major
from his own table from that day, and served him with six covers."

"Yes, it is a beautiful--a beautiful story," said Ronald. "And yet
somehow it is not the same--is it?"

"I admit it freely," said I.

The boy stood a while brooding. "Well, I take my risk of it," he cried.
"I believe it's treason to my sovereign--I believe there is an infamous
punishment for such a crime--and yet I'm hanged if I can give you up."

I was as much moved as he. "I could almost beg you to do otherwise," I
said. "I was a brute to come to you, a brute and a coward. You are a
noble enemy; you will make a noble soldier." And with rather a happy
idea of a compliment for this warlike youth, I stood up straight and
gave him the salute.

He was for a moment confused; his face flushed. "Well, well, I must be
getting you something to eat, but it will not be for six," he added,
with a smile; "only what we can get smuggled out. There is my aunt in
the road, you see," and he locked me in again with the indignant hens.

I always smile when I recall that young fellow; and yet, if the reader
were to smile also, I should feel ashamed. If my son shall be only like
him when he comes to that age, it will be a brave day for me and not a
bad one for his country.

At the same time I cannot pretend that I was sorry when his sister
succeeded in his