The Rector was a fine old gentleman, with a mild and rubicund visage; and he had been, I knew, my father's early friend and schoolfellow; so I resolved to enter the service under some such name as Smith or Brown instead of my own.
He started from his waking dream as the two dragoons clattered in. I can still see, in memory, that quaint old library in which he received us, with its dark oak shelves of goodly folios and quartos, in calf bindings, dark and brown; some partial gleams of sunlight streaming through the lozenged window panes and carved stone mullions fell on the old man's shining head and scattered silver hairs—on the floor of polished oak, on the furniture of walnut wood, and on the russet tints that time had cast over everything.
"What bring you here, my friends—not a deserter—this boy?" stammered the Rector, with sadness and pity in his eye and tone, while wheeling his elbow chair half round.
"No, no, reverend sir, a recruit," replied Charters, with a military salute; "a recruit whom we wish you to attest."
"That slender boy for the cavalry!" exclaimed the Rector.
"He will do excellently for the troop of light horse which Captain Lindsay of ours is raising," suggested Kirkton.
I was then slightly formed, and looked, I knew, wan, dejected, and poor. The good rector surveyed me through his gold-rimmed spectacles with an unmistakeable expression of pity on his benign and fatherly face; after a pause—
"Have you considered this matter well?" he asked; "but you look weary, my poor lad! take some wine—there are glasses on the buffet—corporal, help yourself."
"I thank your Reverence," said Charters, who never required a second invitation of this kind, and so filled our glasses with port—his own twice in succession, and drank, muttering, "Good stuff this! I've tasted worse—in a palace too."
"Have you weighed well the step you are about to take?" continued the rector, impressively.