the brooding heat of summer afternoons, or the rosy flush of summer
sunset, the prime of the year lending a crowning charm to their advent.

It was a delightful start, that first reveillee of the bugle at five of
the clock on a July morning. Youngsters whom nought else could have
tempted out of bed so early darted up at the summons. They envied papas
and uncles, brothers and cousins in the ranks of the Yeomen. Comely
blooming young faces joined the watch at the windows. Cloaks were
loosely cast about rounded shoulders, and caps were hastily snatched up
to hide dishevelled hair; while little bare pink feet would sometimes
show themselves. But the young ladies only peeped out behind the window
curtains, in the background of the noisy demonstrative band of
youngsters.

Distant voices, excited and impatient, were soon heard; then the jingle
of spurs, and the clank of swords, as half-bashful Yeomen descended the
stairs for their _debut_ in the street. At last appeared important
familiar persons, now strikingly transformed by their martial dress, but
terribly uncomfortable and self-conscious.

The horses were led to the doors, and to the women who stayed at home
the mounts were the exquisitely comic incidents of the day. The return
of the members of the troop, now broken to their work, and detached into
groups of threes and fours, and chatting and laughing at their ease, was
quite tame in comparison. The country gentlemen and farmers were, of
course, generally well used to the saddle, and could get upon their
Bucephaluses without difficulty, and ride cavalierly, or prick briskly
out of sight, as they were in good time or too late. But here and there
a solicitor or banker, or wealthy shopkeeper, ambitious of being among
the Yeomen, would meet with unhappy enough adventures. He might be seen
issuing from his doorway with pretended unconcern, but with anxious
clearings of the throat and ominously long breaths, while his nag,
strange to him as John Gilpin's, was brought up to the mounting-place.
The worthy man would plant his foot in the stirrup next him, but, not
throwing himself round decidedly enough, the horse would swerve and
rear, while he looked on beseechingly and helpless. Then he would try
the other side, still failing to swing himself into the saddle. He would
grow more and more flustered. His wife, in her clean muslin cap and
spotless calico wrapper, with her little lads and lasses--one, two,
three--would then step