“Listen to that flute,” bade Jim. “Same old tune.”
The flute was piping, and some of the men joined with tenor voices.
Will you come to the bow’r I have shaded for you?
Your bed shall be roses bespangled with dew.
Will you, will you, will you, will you,
Come to the bow’r?
The song drifted sweetly through the great oaks and their drooping mosses.
“Special invitation to General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna,” quoth Leo. “Well, think I’ll go to bed. We musketeers have orders to turn in early. I’ll see you to-morrow, after we-all finish our easy-going fight.”
“Good-night.”
Sion and Leo left. The flute ceased, and the song ceased, and everybody went to bed. The companies slept in ranks, on their arms, ready for any sudden call. As Ernest, rolled in his blanket, was about to close his eyes, a large figure, blanket-draped, moved past, in the gloom of the trees. He recognized it at once. It was the general, alone, exploring around as if to see that his army were safely tucked in bed. Current opinion had it that the general himself never went to bed until about four in the morning—when he went to bed at all; and between drum-taps and breakfast usually slept about an hour while the men were being prepared for the day’s duties. So now here he was, inspecting his weary, resting soldiers, and perhaps thinking upon to-morrow’s battle. Big and silent and broody, he was rather a comforting sight.