“Hallo, sir! What regiment do you belong to?”
As I had nothing of the soldier about me, save a blue foraging cap, to denote my corps, the tone of the demand was little calculated to elicit a very polished reply; but preferring, as most impertinent, to make no answer, I passed on without speaking.
“Did you hear, sir?” cried the same voice, in a still louder key. “What’s your regiment?”
I now turned round, resolved to question the other in turn; when, to my inexpressible shame and confusion, he had lowered the collar of his cloak, and I saw the features of Sir Arthur Wellesley.
“Fourteenth Light Dragoons, sir,” said I, blushing as I spoke.
“Have you not read the general order, sir? Why have you left the camp?”
Now, I had not read a general order nor even heard one for above a fortnight. So I stammered out some bungling answer.
“To your quarters, sir, and report yourself under arrest. What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant O’Malley, sir.”
“Well, sir, your passion for rambling shall be indulged. You shall be sent to the rear with despatches; and as the army is in advance, probably the lesson may be serviceable.” So saying, he pressed spurs to his horse, and was out of sight in a moment.