"That Celt was my father—the Miller of Invernahyle," said Meinie, proudly.
"Your father! fire and smoke! do you say so? His hand was a heavy one!" cried Wooden-leg, while his eye glowed like the orb of a hyæna.
"And your leg?"
"I lost at Minden, in Kingsley's Brigade, comrade; aye, my leg—d—n!—that was indeed a loss."
"A warning to repentance, I would say."
"Then you would say wrong. Ugh! I remember when the shot—a twelve-pounder—took me just as we were rushing with charged bayonets on the French cannoniers. Smash! my leg was gone, and I lay sprawling and bleeding in a ploughed field near the Weser, while my comrades swept over me with a wild hurrah! the colours waving, and drums beating a charge."
"And what did you do?"
"I lay there and swore, believe me."
"That would not restore your limb again."
"No; but a few hearty oaths relieve the mind; and the mind relieves the body; you understand me, comrade; so there I lay all night under a storm of rain like this, bleeding and sinking; afraid of the knives of the plundering death-hunters, for my mother had been one, and I remembered well how she looked after the wounded, and cured them of their agony."