“No. Part of the regular army. Those sowars are some of ours, and— Ah, you are in luck,” he cried, taking back the glass and using it quickly, before lending it again. “Look: there are some of the horse brigade.”
“Artillery?” I cried excitedly.
“Yes; and in review order. A troop of our horse artillery with their guns.”
My hands trembled so that I could hardly bring the glass to bear upon the long line of men, but at last I had it correct, and excitedly saw them file by at a distance, the sun glancing on their polished brass helmets with long trailing plumes of red horsehair; their blue heavily braided jackets looking as if suddenly cut off by the men’s white breeches, and then again by their heavy black boots.
It was to me a gallant show, and I drew a long, deep breath as I counted the guns with the men mounted upon the limbers, and watched attentively till they passed out of sight.
“Well,” said my companion, “what do you think of our brigade?”
“Oh!” I ejaculated, “I wish I belonged.”
A very brief reply, but the tone made my sad-looking companion smile sadly.
“Ah, Vincent,” he said, “you can only see the parade and show. Yes; it is very bright and fresh to you, but the time will come when all that pomp will be very irksome to you, and you will wish that the Company would let you dress simply and sensibly in a uniform suited to this terrible climate, and in which you could use your limbs freely without distressing yourself and your horse.”
“But they look magnificent,” I said.