"Sir," said the Colonel, "give me one thousand English soldiers for a week and I'll pit them against any thousand Highlanders you like to bring against 'em."
"Then it's a good job you're on my side," said Charles.
"It is indeed, sir," said the Colonel, very quietly, "and under favour, sir, you will be well advised to have your troops exercised in the best ways of charging men who don't mean to run from them. There's no military science wanted to beat men who run away from you as soon as you attack. As I understand it, your Highlander fires his piece from a good distance, throws it away, and then rushes to the attack. If the enemy stands, he catches the bayonet of the man in front of him in his leather shield, where it sticks, and so has him at mercy, and through you go like a knife through a cheese."
"That's just how it's done, Colonel," said Charles merrily.
"Well, sir, that's just how it wouldn't be done if I was in command against you."
There was neither eating nor drinking going on now, except that the Prince poured out his third glass of brandy. Everybody was intent on the dialogue. Ogilvie, his hand clasping his wife's under the skirt of the napery, looked so intently at the Colonel that his face was like a figure in a Euclid book.
"How would you stop it, sir?"
It was Mr. Secretary who spoke, for Charles was sipping at his brandy.
"We're all friends here?" said the Colonel brusquely.
"All loyal to the last drop of our blood," replied Mr. Secretary fervently.