“Now, Ben, what next?”
“The thing I’ve been thinking, sir, is that, little as it be, we must make the most of our garrison. It’s war time now, and if you’ll give the order I’ll march the men to the armoury and serve out the weepuns and clothes.”
Roy nodded, gave the word for the men to march, counter-ordered it, at a hint from Ben, and then, telling them to face right, put himself at their head, and marched them to the long, low room at once.
Ben began to serve out the buff jerkins and steel caps.
“Can’t stop for no trying on now,” he said; “you must do as we used in the army,—change about till you get them as fits you.”
This done, the firelocks and bandoleers followed, and, lastly, to each man a belt and sword.
And all the time the old soldier handed every article to the recipient with a grave dignity and a solemnity of manner which seemed to say, “I am giving treasures to you that I part from with the greatest regret,” and he finished with—
“Now, my lads, look here: it’s a great honour to bear arms in the service of your king, and if you’re carrying Sir Granby Royland’s arms you’re carrying the king’s, so take care of ’em. A good soldier wouldn’t have a speck of rust on his helmet or his sword; they’re as bright as I can make ’em now, and as sharp, so mind they’re always so. Now go to your new quarters and put ’em on—proper, mind; and your master, the captain here, will have a parade in an hour’s time.”
The men went off, leaving Roy wondering at the calmness with which he stood by listening while old Ben talked to the men and kept on referring to him as “your master.”
Ben now turned to him. “What do you say, sir?” he said. “Don’t you think we had better go down and see if all’s right in the powder-magazine?”