"Nay, he's very secret."
"Pro-digious!" exclaimed the Sergeant, his eyes shining. "His honour was ever a great hand at surprises—ambuscades d'ye see, madam—ambushments, my lady, sudden onfalls and the like, and for leading a forlorn hope there was none to compare."
"You mean he has fought in a battle, Sergeant?"
"A battle, mam!" The Sergeant sighed and shook reproachful head. "Twenty and three pitched battles, my lady and twelve sieges, not to mention sorties, outpost skirmishes and the like! 'Fighting d'Arcy' he was called, madam! Sixteen wounds, my lady, seven of 'em bullet and the rest steel——"
"Heavens!" exclaimed my lady, "I marvel there is any of him left!"
"What is left, my lady, is all man! There never was such a man! There never will be."
"'Fighting d'Arcy'!" she repeated. "It sounds so unlike—and looks quite impossible—see yonder!" And she turned towards where, afar off, the object of their talk limped towards them his head bent studiously above an open book from which he raised his eyes, ever and anon, as if weighing some abstruse passage; thus he presently espied my lady and, shutting the book, thrust it into his pocket and hastened towards her. Hereupon the Sergeant saluted, wheeled and marched away, yet not before he had noted the glad light in the Major's grey eyes and, from a proper distance, had seen him clasp my lady's white hand and kiss it fervently. Instantly the Sergeant fell to the "double" until he was out of sight, then he halted suddenly, shook his head, smacked hand to thigh and laughed:
"All I say is, as there ain't, there never was, there never will be a word for it—not one!"