"And what army was this?" I asked.
"Oh, I have served in so many armies that I mix them up sometimes. Yes, I have seen much of war. Apropos I have seen your Scotchmen fight, and very stout fantassins they make, but I thought from them, that the folk over here all wore—how do you say it?—petticoats."
"Those are the kilts, and they wear them only in the Highlands."
"Ah! on the mountains. But there is a man out yonder. Maybe he is the one who your father said would carry my letters to the post."
"Yes, he is Farmer Whitehead's man. Shall I give them to him?"
"Well, he would be more careful of them if he had them from your hand."
He took them from his pocket and gave them over to me. I hurried out with them, and as I did so my eyes fell upon the address of the topmost one. It was written very large and clear:
A SON MAJESTE,
LE ROI DE SUEDE,
STOCKHOLM.
I did not know very much French, but I had enough to make that out. What sort of eagle was this which had flown into our humble little nest?