"Bob is quartered there, on an old Turk, whose third wife is a female so severely respectable, that she never feeds the hens without a veil on."
"Why?" asked Scriven.
"Can't you guess?" asked Berkeley.
"No."
"Because there is—aw—aw—a d——d cock among them."
This frivolous conversation was now interrupted by a hoarse voice in front, challenging—
"Qui va là?"
"Friends!" I replied.
"Anglaises," added the other, and we found ourselves face to face with a French mounted officer and a small party of workmen, with pickaxes and shovels. In the horseman I immediately recognised Colonel Giomar, of the French 77th Regiment, who demanded whither we were going in that remarkable direction.
"'Tis an affair of honour, monsieur le colonel, and we propose to settle it here," said I. "May we?"