[Shaking her Head.
La Gloire. Nay, then, I am the veriest poltroon, if I think the sound of a trumpet would move me any more than—[A Parley is sounded from the Walls.]—Eh!—gad—oh!—ecod there's a bustle! a parley from the walls; which may end in a skirmish, or a battle—or a—I'll be with you again in the chopping off of a head.
Madelon. Nay, now, La Gloire, I thought the sound of a trumpet——
La Gloire. A trumpet—simpleton!—that was a—gad I—wasn't it a drum?—Adieu, Madelon! I'll be back again ere—[Parley.]——March! —Charge!—Huzza!
[Draws his Sword, and exit.
Madelon. Well-a-day! a soldier's wife must have a fearful time on't. Yet do I love La Gloire; he is so kind, so tender!—and he has, simply, the best leg in the army. Heigho!—It must feel very odd to sleep in a tent:—a camp must be ever in alarms, and soldiers always ready for surprise.—Dame Toinette, who married a corporal, ere I was born, told me, that, for one whole campaign, her husband went to bed in his boots.
SONG.—MADELON.
Little thinks the townsman's wife,
While at home she tarries,
What must be the lass's life,