"Here comes Dick Warriston," said Monkton, as an officer muffled in a cloak approached. "Hallo, Dick—how goes it, man?"
"Good evening, gentlemen—thought I should find you out. I heard on the march that our friend the volunteer had turned up again. How are you, Kennedy? glad to see you safe and sound once more," said Quentin's old friend, as they shook hands, and he cast his ample blue muffling aside, displaying his well-built figure, with the scarlet coat, green lapels, and massive gold epaulettes of the Scots Brigade.
"Be seated, Dick."
"Thanks, Askerne."
"Do you prefer a chair, or a sofa?" asked Monkton.
"The sofa, by all means," replied Warriston, stretching himself on the grass.
"There is brandy in that jar beside you, and Lisbon wine in the bottle. Here, under these fine old chestnuts, we are quite a select little pic-nic party, out of range of shot, shell, and everything——"
"Except fireflies and mosquitoes, Willie—a poor substitute for the girls, God bless them."
"Whose trumpets are these? what's up now?" asked Monkton, as a sharp cavalry call rang upon the night.
"The 3rd Dragoons of the German Legion, Burgwesel's regiment, are watering their horses."