is on us! Drive him back!"
To eat a slice of rook--and raw at that,
Or quickly mix a delicate ice-cream
With melted snow and a dead horse's blood?
Us, who--

THE DUKE.

At last!

THE LACKEY.

At night had little fear
Of bullets, but a holy dread of waking
Cannibals; us--

THE DUKE.

At last--!

THE LACKEY.

Who marched and fought
Fasting, and only stopped--

THE DUKE.

At last I see one!

THE LACKEY.

To fight--and then stopped fighting, four to one,
Only to march; and stopped again to fight!
Marching and fighting, naked, starved, but merry--
Don't you suppose we, too, were sick of it?

MARMONT.

But--

THE LACKEY.

Though we owed him precious little thanks,
Nevertheless 'twas we whose hearts were true,
While you were ambling at the King's right hand.
In short, your Highness, in the great canteen,
Where souls are fed on glory, he may find

[_Pointing to_ MARMONT.]

His laurels are not worth our small potatoes.

MARMONT.

Who is this Lackey with the veteran's growl?

THE LACKEY.

John Seraph Peter Flambeau, called Flambart--
"The glowing coal"--ex-sergeant grenadier.
Mamma from Picardy; Papa a Breton.
Joined at fourteen, two Germinal, year Three.
Baptised, Marengo; got my corporal's stripes
The fifteenth Fructidor, year Twelve. Silk hose
And sergeant's cane, steeped in my tears of joy.
July fourteenth, year Eighteen hundred and nine,
At Schoenbrunn, for the Guards were here to serve
The sacred person of your Majesty.
Sixteen years' service, seen sixteen campaigns,
Fought Austerlitz, fought Eylau, Somo-Siera,
Eckmuehl, Essling, Wagram, Smolensk, and so forth.
Thirty-two feats of arms, a lot of wounds,
And only fought for glory and dry bread.

MARMONT.

Surely you will not listen to him thus?

THE DUKE.

No, sir, I will not listen thus, but standing!

MARMONT.

My Lord!

THE DUKE.

For in the volume whose sublime
Chapters are headed with proud capitals
You are the titles and you catch the eye;
But these--these are the thousand little letters--
You're nought, without the black and humble army
That goes to make a page of history.
Oh, my brave Flambeau, painter of my soldiers,
To think while you were near me all this month,
I only looked upon you as a spy.

FLAMBEAU.

Oh, our acquaintance dates much further back!

THE DUKE.

How so