‘Hugh!’ echoed the other; ‘ay, Hugh—Maypole Hugh! You remember my dog? He’s alive now, and will know you, I warrant. What, you wear the colour, do you? Well done! Ha ha ha!’
‘You know this young man, I see,’ said Lord George.
‘Know him, my lord! as well as I know my own right hand. My captain knows him. We all know him.’
‘Will you take him into your division?’
‘It hasn’t in it a better, nor a nimbler, nor a more active man, than Barnaby Rudge,’ said Hugh. ‘Show me the man who says it has! Fall in, Barnaby. He shall march, my lord, between me and Dennis; and he shall carry,’ he added, taking a flag from the hand of a tired man who tendered it, ‘the gayest silken streamer in this valiant army.’
‘In the name of God, no!’ shrieked the widow, darting forward. ‘Barnaby—my lord—see—he’ll come back—Barnaby—Barnaby!’
‘Women in the field!’ cried Hugh, stepping between them, and holding her off. ‘Holloa! My captain there!’
‘What’s the matter here?’ cried Simon Tappertit, bustling up in a great heat. ‘Do you call this order?’
‘Nothing like it, captain,’ answered Hugh, still holding her back with his outstretched hand. ‘It’s against all orders. Ladies are carrying off our gallant soldiers from their duty. The word of command, captain! They’re filing off the ground. Quick!’
‘Close!’ cried Simon, with the whole power of his lungs. ‘Form! March!’