urs of the short, sultry Spanish night. "Half an hour, at least," was
the answer. "Very well, then I will turn in and get some sleep," said
the Commander-in-Chief, rolling himself in a cloak, and lying down in
a ditch to rest as soundly for the single half hour as any tired
drummer-boy.

Serenely as Wellington, another hero slept profoundly, on the eve of a
great event--of a great contest to be met when the day should break--of
a critical victory, depending on him alone to save the Guards of
England from defeat and shame; their honor and their hopes rested on his
solitary head; by him they would be lost or saved; but, unharassed by
the magnitude of the stake at issue, unhaunted by the past, unfretted by
the future, he slumbered the slumber of the just.

Not Sir Tristram, Sir Caledore, Sir Launcelot--no, nor Arthur
himself--was ever truer knight, was ever gentler, braver, bolder, more
stanch of heart, more loyal of soul, than he to whom the glory of the
Brigades was trusted now; never was there spirit more dauntless and
fiery in the field; never temper kindlier and more generous with friends
and foes. Miles of the ridge and furrow, stiff fences of terrible
blackthorn, double posts and rails, yawners and croppers both, tough as
Shire and Stewards could make them, awaited him on the morrow; on his
beautiful lean head capfuls of money were piled by the Service and
the Talent; and in his stride all the fame of the Household would
be centered on the morrow; but he took his rest like the cracker he
was--standing as though he were on guard, and steady as a rock, a hero
every inch of him. For he was Forest King, the great steeple-chaser,
on whom the Guards had laid all their money for the Grand Military--the
Soldiers' Blue Ribbon.

His quarters were a loose box; his camp-bed a litter of straw fresh
shaken down; his clothing a very handsome rug, hood, and quarter-piece
buckled on and marked "B. C."; above the manger and the door was
lettered his own name in gold. "Forest King"; and in the panels of the
latter were miniatures of his sire and of his dam: Lord of the Isles,
one of the greatest hunters that the grass countries ever saw sent
across them; and Bayadere, a wild-pigeon-blue mare of Circassia. How,
furthermore, he stretched up his long line of ancestry by the Sovereign,
out of Queen of Roses; by Belted Earl, out of Fallen Star; by Marmion,
out of Court Coquette, and straight up to the White Cockade blood, etc.,
etc., et