"I know your straits," continued the other. "You're short of provisions—"
"Short of provisions!" guffawed the Parson. "Why, step this way, and
I'll show you a boy with the bellyache."
"And short of men," the other continued, quite himself again. "What does your garrison consist of?—one holy padre, one half an old sailor, Monsieur Mooncalf, and Little Chap."
"And what's your own lot?" bellowed the Parson—"one dozen of sweepings of France, one dozen of the picked scum of our country, and one conceited young whipper-snapper, who swaggers about in breeches and boots all day and was never on a horse in his life to my certain knowledge!"
The Gentleman waved his hand.
"Take the consequences then," he said. "A rivederci."
"Take the consequences yourself!" roared the Parson—"you and your river dirties. I'll see your friends hung high as Haman yet."
The other shook his head.
"You won't live to see that, dear man," he said quietly, and turned away.