"If they ever see it," growled the Borderer, for he was a Liddesdale man.
"Bravo, Gauntlet," hiccupped Charters, then turning to me; "head up, and thumb on the bridle—you have quite the air of a soldier!"
"I always study to be what I wish to seem," said I.
"So said Socrates," added Tom Kirkton, remembering his classics.
"Ugh! he quotes Socrates on the line of march."
"Well," rejoined Tom; "he was a private soldier like ourselves, and saved the life of Xenophon."
"Be silent, my lads," said Captain Lindsay; "we have work in hand that requires you to be so."
As we quitted our bivouac, I was more than ever struck with its picturesque aspect. Some regiments of infantry (among them the 8th, 20th, and 25th), which had not yet been ordered under arms, were lying around their watchfires in a green clover field. These fires could not have been less than ninety or a hundred in number, and their united glare fell redly on the sunburned faces and scarlet uniforms of the scattered groups who sat around them; on the lines of those who lay asleep with their knapsacks for pillows; on the long rows of muskets, piled with bayonets fixed, and on the silk colours, that drooped before the guarded tent of each commanding officer.
Beyond these were the dark figures of the active artillery, limbering up, tracing their horses to the field guns, and preparing for immediate service; and as fresh fuel was cast on those watchfires, and the weird light flared up anew, it brought out in strong relief objects at a greater distance; trees and rocks were visible for a time, and then, as the flame wavered and sunk, they faded into obscurity. Add to all this, that the night was intensely dark, and the atmosphere dense and sulphury.
Nor moon nor star were visible; the wind was still, and the flames of the crackling watchfires burned steadily and high.