degrees recollection came, and as I
thought over my position and its possible consequences, I was again nearly
dropping to sleep, when the door suddenly opened, and a heavy step sounded
on the floor.

I lay still and spoke not, as a large figure in a cloak approached the
fire-place, and stooping down endeavored to light a candle at the fast
expiring fire.

I had little difficulty in detecting the major even by the half-light; a
muttered execration upon the candle, given with an energy that only an
Irishman ever bestows upon slight matters, soon satisfied me on this head.

"May the Devil fly away with the commissary and the chandler to the forces!
Ah, you've lit at last!"

With these words he stood up, and his eyes falling on me at the moment,
he sprang a yard or two backwards, exclaiming as he did so, "The blessed
Virgin be near us, what's this?" a most energetic crossing of himself
accompanying his words. My pale and haggard face, thus suddenly presented,
having suggested to the worthy major the impression of a supernatural
visitor, a hearty burst of laughter, which I could not resist, was my only
answer; and the next moment O'Shaughnessy was wrenching my hand in a grasp
like a steel vice.

"Upon my conscience, I thought it was your ghost; and if you kept quiet a
little longer, I was going to promise you Christian burial, and as many
Masses for your soul as my uncle the bishop could say between this and
Easter. How are you, my boy? A little thin, and something paler, I think,
than when you left us."

Having assured him that fatigue and hunger were in a great measure the
cause of my sickly looks, the major proceeded to place before me the
_debris_ of his day's dinner, with a sufficiency of bottles to satisfy a
mess-table, keeping up as he went a running fire of conversation.

"I'm as glad as if the Lord took the senior major, to see you here this
night. With the blessing of Providence we'll shoot Trevyllian in the
morning, and any more of the heavies that like it. You are an ill-treated
man, that's what it is, and Dan O'Shaughnessy says it. Help yourself, my
boy; crusty old port in that bottle as ever you touched your lips to.
Power's getting all right; it was contract powder, warranted not to kill.
Bad luck to the commissaries once more! With such ammunition Sir Arthur
does right to trust most to the bayonet. And how is Monsoon, the old
rogue?"

"Gloriously, living in the midst of wine and olives."

"No fear