CHAPTER XXIV.
BY THE OLD DIAL-STONE.
“So heroes may well wear their armour,
And, patient, count over their scars;
Venus’ dimples, assuming the charmer,
Shall smooth the rough furrows of Mars.”
Dibdin.
ENERAL GRANT MACKENZIE was lounging at breakfast one morning in his private rooms in the big barn-like barracks of C——. At his right hand sat one of his captains, with whom he was talking—languidly enough, it must be confessed.
“You are right, Moore. By Jove, you’re right; and to-day I send in my resignation. Here have we been lying waiting the French for more than a year, and the rascals won’t show front. No; I shall go in for club life in London now.”
“We’ll miss you, general.”
“Ah, Moore, it is good of you to say so; but what can a fellow do? When I rejoined the service, I expected to see some fighting. Disappointed. And now I’m parted from my daughter, and lying in this old barn positively getting mouldy. Besides—”