To the rolling and rumbling was now added a far-away sound of tramping feet and song.
“Here they come!” exclaimed Tremenheere; “back to billets; they changed at six o’clock, but it’s heavy going—mostly wading in slosh.”
The marching came nearer and nearer, also the sound of singing and mouth-organs.
“‘Michigan,’” said Shafto, “is a favourite; poor old ‘Tipperary’ is down and out.”
Presently the force which had been relieved, muddy to the waist, but splendidly cheerful, splashed into the great courtyard.
“Irish,” explained Tremenheere; “magnificent fellows, born fighters.”
They watched the men as they fell out and scattered to their quarters in outhouses, barns and offices; and then Shafto and his friends made their way into the battered old chateau, and temporary Orderly room—once a lady’s boudoir. It still exhibited strips of artistic wall-paper, a cracked mirror, a beautiful Louis XIV. cabinet stacked with papers, a few rude chairs, a couple of wooden tables.
Presently a sergeant-major came in to report, a fine stalwart fellow with a heavy black moustache and, in spite of his muddy waders, an air of complete self-possession. Having saluted and handed over his papers, his quick blue eyes rested on Shafto. He started, saluted, and said:
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Shafto, sir, but I see you don’t know me.”
“Well, no, I can’t say that I do,” replied Shafto, casting his mind over the last eighteen months.