“I suspected something; I went to confute, or confirm that suspicion. I confirmed it.”
Rat! tat! tat! tat! tat! tat! tat! was heard a drum. Relieving guard in the mine.
Colonel Dujardin interrupted himself.
“That comes apropos,” said he. “I expect one proof more from that quarter. Sergeant, send me the sentinel they are relieving.”
Sergeant La Croix soon came back, as pompous as a hen with one chick, predominating with a grand military air over a droll figure that chattered with cold, and held its musket in hands clothed in great mittens. Dard.
La Croix marched him up as if he had been a file; halted him like a file, sang out to him as to a file, stentorian and unintelligible, after the manner of sergeants.
“Private No. 4.”
DARD. P-p-p-present!
LA CROIX. Advance to the word of command, and speak to the colonel.
The shivering figure became an upright statue directly, and carried one of his mittens to his forehead. Then, suddenly recognizing the rank of the gray-haired officer, he was morally shaken, but remained physically erect, and stammered,—