'Qui va là?' shouted the sentinel again. 'Stand, monsieur, and deliver the parole.'
'Saint Louis.'
'Bon—good,' he replied, shouldering his musket.
'The countersign, if you please?' said I.
'Paris.'
'Thank you, friend musketeer.'
'Saint Louis et Paris. Bon! a thousand thanks, Monsieur Ecossais. A rash fellow would have fired at once on any man rushing thus from the enemy's lines. And now, brave comrade, what of the Bastion de Louise?'
'It is fangless now.'
'Mordieu! you have accomplished your task. O monsieur, that I were you! we shall dance a cotillon there in the morning.'
All blackened, muddy, and drenched, I hurried to the quarters of Sir John Hepburn, whom I found ensconced in the lower story of a ruined windmill, with the Viscounts Dundrennan, de Turenne, and Arpajou; the Marquis de Toneins; and Colonels Ramsay and Lesly, some sleeping, some smoking and drinking Rhenish and stroh wine by the light of a stable lantern; and to them I reported my success. The tall and stately Hepburn embraced me, all soiled as I was. He made me drain his cup filled with wine, and taking from his own breast the cross of St. Lazare, said—