Before I had time to reflect upon this singular incident, I heard the voice of Stuart.
“Come, Surry! to horse! unless you wish to remain!” he said.
“Ready, general!” I replied.
And in five minutes we were galloping toward Fleetwood.
“A gay ball,” said Stuart, as we rode along; “but do you remember my instinct, Surry?”
“Perfectly, general. Has it told you something on the present occasion?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“You have heard of the famous ball at Brussells, broken up by the guns of Waterloo?”
“Certainly.”