But his voice and the half-strangled bugle notes were alike borne away by the tempest.
A heavy malediction escaped Monkton. This worthy sub had puffed at his fragrant Havannah till he had smoked himself into such a soothed state that he was quite indisposed "to be bothered about anything or anybody," as he said; and now he remembered that on halting the sergeant-major had warned him for out-picquet.
He sprang up and kicked the brasero aside, sending the smouldering charcoal flying right and left.
"Out-picquet!" he exclaimed, "and the rain coming down in bucketfuls! Damme, who would be a soldier abroad, while there are chimneys to sweep at home?"
A smart single knock now came to the door, as he belted his sword beneath his cloak.
"Come in—is that you, sergeant-major?"
"Yes, sir," said old Norman Calder, who was muffled in his grey great-coat, which, as he said, "smoked like a killogie."
"Where are these infernal picquets parading?"
"I've just come to show you, sir; they are falling in under the arcades opposite the Bishop's palace, where the staff are quartered. Fresh ammunition has just been served out to all."
"That looks like work."