"Aye, to be sure—to be sure!" said the Major vaguely.
"Y' see 'tis getting late, your honour," continued Sergeant Zebedee, viewing the Major's drawn features anxiously.
"Why then—go you to bed, Zebedee."
"Can I get you aught first, sir—a bite o' something—a bottle or so?"
"No, Zeb, no—stay! Bring me my Ramillie coat."
CHAPTER XXXVIII
HOW THE MAJOR MADE HIS WILL
Colonel Lord George Cleeve, blissfully slumbering in deep armchair beside the library fire, choked upon a snore and, opening his eyes, perceived the Major opposite in another deep chair; but the Major was awake, his frowning gaze was bent upon the fire and ever and anon he sighed deeply.
"Refuse me, Jack!" exclaimed the Colonel, "to hark to you one would think you in love and—er—damnably forlorn, you sigh, man, you sigh, aye, let me perish, you puff grief like any bellows."