"Assemble the officers by beat of drum," said Ian.
The drum was beaten, and in five minutes they were all assembled under the Green-Tree, thirty Highlanders, all stately men as ever drew a sword; and to them Ian, the lieutenant-colonel, related our dilemma.
Every man of them opened the mouth of his sporran.
"Hold your steel-bonnet, kinsman," said Ian to the sergeant, Mhor.
Phadrig held his helmet inverted, and every officer threw in what he could spare; some who had not even a brass bodle, cut the silver or gold buttons from their coats, or twisted off some links from those gold chains which our Scottish officers usually wore during the Thirty Years' war, I broke off ten from mine; Major Fritz gave twenty florins; and Bernhard's eyes glistened with joy, as the coin of every kind and value—silver, brass, and copper, buttons, chains, and rings—rattled into the helmet, where a sum amounting to more than eight hundred ducats was collected.
"This is a pretty sum to give such a rascal!" said M'Alpine, who had just twisted the gold tassels from his sporran.
"It is rewarding treachery and crime," said another: "think of how many brave fellows peril their lives in the field for a stiver per hour."
"By the head of Alpine! I would rather fight Merodé than pay it," said M'Alpine.
"But the king's orders," said our lieutenant-colonel.
"Ah, true! I had forgotten."