chief, and the regimental rules he broke through like a terrier
through a gauze net; but they knew that when once the trumpets sounded
Boot and Saddle, this yellow-haired dare-devil of an English fellow
would be worth a score of more orderly soldiers, and that, wherever
his adopted flag was carried, there would he be, first and foremost, in
everything save retreat. The English service had failed to turn Rake to
account; the French service made no such mistake, but knew that though
this British bulldog might set his teeth at the leash and the lash, he
would hold on like grim death in a fight, and live game to the last, if
well handled.

Apart, at the head of the barracks, sat Cecil. The banter, the songs,
the laughter, the chorus of tongues, went on unslackened by his
presence. He had cordial sympathies with the soldiers--with those men
who had been his followers in adversity and danger; and in whom he had
found, despite all their occasional ferocity and habitual recklessness,
traits and touches of the noblest instincts of humanity. His heart was
with them always, as his purse, and his wine, and his bread were alike
shared ever among them. He had learned to love them well--these wild
wolf-dogs, whose fangs were so terrible to their foes, but whose
eyes would still glisten at a kind word, and who would give a staunch
fidelity unknown to tamer animals.

Living with them, one of them in all their vicissitudes; knowing all
their vices, but knowing also all their virtues; owing to them many an
action of generous nobility and watching them in many an hour when their
gallant self-devotion and their loyal friendships went far to redeem
their lawless robberies and their ruthless crimes, he understood them
thoroughly, and he could rule them more surely in their tempestuous
evil, because he comprehended them so well in their mirth and in their
better moods. When the grade of sous-officier gave him authority over
them, they obeyed him implicitly because they knew that his sympathies
were with them at all times, and that he would be the last to check
their gayety, or to punish their harmless indiscretions.

The warlike Roumis had always had a proud tenderness for their
"Bel-a-faire-peur," and a certain wondering respect for him; but they
would not have adored him to a man, as they did, unless they had known
that they might laugh without restraint before him, and confide any
dilemma to him--sure of aid, if aid were in his power.