ice when he turned towards the tent and
called:--

"Lubin, you drunken dog, come hither," a call which brought forth a
servant-like person, who, by reason of his clean-shaven face and red
nose, reminded the boy of Pattern the coachman.

He wore a dark cloth suit, cotton stockings, shoes that had neither
laces nor buttons, but fastened with a kind of strap and buckle, and,
queer creature, a big Eton collar!

"Sword and horse, rascal," said the gentleman, "and warn Digby for
duty. Bring me wine and a manchet of bread."

The man bowed and re-entered the tent, to emerge a moment later
bearing _the Sword_.

How the cut-steel hilt sparkled and shone! How bright and red the
leather scabbard--now black, dull, cracked and crumbling. But it was
unmistakeably _the_ Sword.

It hung from a kind of broad cross-belt and was attached to it by
several parallel buckled straps--not like Father's Sam Browne belt at
all.

As the gentleman rose from his stool (he must have been over six feet
in height) Lubin passed the cross-belt over his head and raised left
arm so that it rested on his right shoulder, and the Sword hung from
hip to heel.

To the boy it had always seemed such a huge, unwieldy thing. At this
big man's side it looked--just right.

Lubin then went off at a trot to where long lines of bay horses pawed
the ground, swished their tails, tossed their heads, and fidgeted
generally....

From a neighbouring tent came the sounds of a creaking camp-bed, two
feet striking the ground with violence, and a prodigious, prolonged
yawn.

A voice then announced that all parades should be held in Hell, and
that it was better to be dead than damned. Why should gentlemen drill
on a fine evening while the world held wine and women?

After a brief space, occupied with another mighty yawn, it loudly and
tunefully requested some person or persons unknown to superintend its
owner's obsequies.

"Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth...."

"May it do so soon," observed the tall gentleman distinctly.

"What ho, without there! That you, Seymour, lad?" continued the voice.
"Tarry a moment. Where's that cursed ..." and sounds of hasty search
among jingling accoutrements were followed by a snatch of song of
which the boy instantly recognized the words. He had often heard
Dea