"Damned fools!" said Audley. "What's the sense of it?"
"There ain't any, but if the feeling in our lines and the French lines tonight is anything to go by we're in for a nasty affair tomorrow."
"Well, I don't approve of it," said Gordon, raising himself on his elbow to throw the stub of his cigar into the fire. "We used to manage things much better in Spain. Do you remember those fellows of ours who used to leave a bowl out with a piece of money in it every night for the French vedettes to take in exchange for cognac? Now, that's what I call a proper, friendly way of conducting a war."
"There wasn't anything very friendly about our fellows the night the French took the money without filling the bowl," Audley remarked. "Have the French ll come up?"
"Can't say," replied Canning. "There's been a good deal of artillery arriving on their side, judging from the rumbling I heard when I was on the field half an hour ago. Queer thing: our fellows have lit campfires, as usual, but there isn't one to be seen in the French lines."
"Poor devils!" said Audley, and shut his eyes.
Downstairs, the Duke was also stretched on his bed, having dropped asleep with that faculty he possessed of snatching rest anywhere and at any time. At three o'clock Lord Fitzroy woke him with the intelligence that Baron Muffling had come over from his quarters with a despatch from Marshal Blucher at Wavre.
The Duke sat up, and swung his legs to the ground. "What's the time? Three o'clock? Time to get up. How's the weather?"
"Clearing a little, sir."
"Good!" His lordship pulled on his hessians, shrugged himself into his coat, and strode into the adjoining room, where Muffling awaited him. "Hallo, Baron! Fitzroy tells me the weather's beginning to clear."