to
report to the General.

"What happened when I fell, sir?" George asked with curiosity, as the
officer walked by the side of the litter. He was astounded to learn
that the Frenchman had been found still held in tight grip, his neck
broken. The enemy had been put to the rout and had fled, leaving their
flag behind them. Moreover, the French camp a couple of miles away had
been spied.

"You have three ribs broken, Fairburn," the officer went on, "and
you've got about as many bruises as there are days in a year. But what
of that. By Jerusalem! I wish the honour had fallen to me!"

"I don't mind the wounds a bit, sir," George answered, cheerfully, "so
long as I've been of some use."

The next day no less a person than the great Earl of Galway himself
came to speak to the wounded lad.

"I have heard from your lieutenant here the tale of your doings
yesterday," he said, with a smile. "You are a boy of pluck. You are
done for so far as the present campaign is concerned, and must be sent
back to hospital. But there's work cut out yet for a lad of your
mettle."

George heard all this praise as if in a dream. He was never sure in
after years whether the Earl had really said so much. But Lieutenant
Fieldsend, who was destined to become his comrade on many a
hard-fought field, and his warm friend for life, was always prepared
to tell the full and correct story.

CHAPTER VI

THE ROCK OF GIBRALTAR

"This is better than lying on one's back in hospital, sir, and better
than dodging about in a close-packed transport."

The words came from George Fairburn, as with his officer, Lieutenant
Fieldsend, he stood surveying, from its northern vicinity, the
far-famed Rock of Gibraltar. It was the summer of 1704. His doings
since the day of his injuries in the dingle are soon recorded. After
months of sickness and a winter of inaction, his service under Lord
Galway had come to an end, much to his disgust at first. With others,
he had been sent on board a vessel and carried round the coast of
Spain to the neighbourhood of Barcelona, where Sir George Rooke was
operating. The new troops had arrived too late. The Admiral,
despairing of making any impression on the strongly-fortified
Barcelona, was about to sail for home. On the way the idea had come to
Sir George that the commanding fortress of Gibraltar would be worth
trying for. He had accordingly landed a number of troops on the narrow
isthmus of flat land that joins the r