I looked in the direction he pointed, and there stood my old friend. He was advanced in front of a company, and with the air of a tambour-major he seemed as if he was giving time to the melody.
“Ah, sacré conscripts that ye are!” cried he, as with his fist clenched he gesticulated fiercely towards them; “can't ye keep the measure? Once, now, and all together:—
“'Picardy first, and then—.”
“Halloo, Maître François! can you remember an old friend?”
The little man turned suddenly, and bringing his hand to the salute, remained stiff and erect, as if on parade.
“Connais pas, mon capitaine,” was his answer, after a considerable pause.
“What! not know me!—me, whom you made one of your own gallant company, calling me 'Burke of Ours'?”
“Ah, par la barbe de Saint Pierre! is this my dear comrade of the Eighth? Why, where have you been? They said you left us forever and aye.”
“I tried it, François; but it wouldn't do.”
“Mille bombes!” said he; “but you 're back in pleasant times,—to see the Cossacks learning to drink champagne, and leave us to pay the score. Come along, however; take your old place here. You are free to choose now, and needn't be a dragoon any longer; not but that your old general will be glad to see you again.”