The decanter was passed across the table without speaking, a half nod intimated the bottle was standing; and except an occasional malediction upon an intractable cigar, nothing was heard.
Such was the agreeable occupation we were engaged in, when, towards nine o’clock, the door opened, and the great Maurice himself stood before us.
“Pleasant fellows, upon my conscience, and jovial over their liquor! Confound your smoking! That may do very well in a bivouac. Let us have something warm!”
Quill’s interruption was a most welcome one to both parties, and we rejoiced with a sincere pleasure at his coming.
“What shall it be, Maurice? Port or sherry mulled, and an anchovy?”
“Or what say you to a bowl of bishop?” said I.
“Hurrah for the Church, Charley! Let us have the bishop; and not to disparage Fred’s taste, we’ll be eating the anchovy while the liquor’s concocting.”
“Well, Maurice, and now for the news. How are matters at Torres Vedras? Anything like movement in that quarter?”
“Nothing very remarkable. Massena made a reconnoissance some days since, and one of our batteries threw a shower of grape among the staff, which spoiled the procession, and sent them back in very disorderly time. Then we’ve had a few skirmishes to the front with no great results,—a few courts-martial, bad grub, and plenty of grumbling.”
“Why, what would they have? It’s a great thing to hold the French army in check within a few marches of Lisbon.”