“No,” said I; “further than the fact of my having enjoyed a capital night's rest and eaten an excellent breakfast, I know nothing about it.”
A hearty burst of laughter from my companion followed this very candid acknowledgment on my part.
“Then, may I ask, what are your intentions for the future? Have you any?”
“At least one hundred,” said I, smiling; “but every one of them has about as many objections against it. I should like much, for instance, to be a soldier,—not in the English service though. I should like to belong to an army where neither birth nor fortune can make nor mar a man's career. I should like, too, to be engaged in some great war of liberty, where with each victory we gained the voices of a liberated people would fall in blessings upon us. And then I should like to raise myself to high command by some great achievement.”
“And then,” said the Frenchman, interrupting, “to come back to Ireland, and cut off the head of this terrible Monsieur Basset. N'est-ce pas, Tom?”
I could not help joining in his laugh against myself; although in good truth I had felt better pleased if he had taken up my enthusiasm in a different mood.
“So much for mere dreaming!” said I, with half a sigh, as our laughter subsided.
“Not so,” said he, quickly,—“not so; all you said is far more attainable than you suspect. I have been in such a service myself. I won my 'grade' as officer at the point of my sword, when scarcely your age; and before I was fifteen, received this.”
He took down the sword that hung over the chimney as he said these words, and drawing it from the scabbard, pointed to the inscription, which in letters of gold adorned the blade,—“Rivoli,” “Arcole;” then turning the reverse, I read,—“Au Lieutenant Charles Gustave de Meudon, Troisième Cuirassiers.”
“This, then, is your name?” said I, repeating it half aloud.