A dozen willing hands tossed together the logs which sent up a swift, high flame. The whole circle was lighted brightly, and Bill Breakstone stood up. Phil had never taken seriously his assertion that he had been an actor, but now he suddenly changed his opinion. He stood for a few moments in the full blaze of the light, a tall, slender figure, his face lean and shaven smoothly. His expression changed absolutely. He seemed wholly unconscious of the young soldiers about him, of the palms, or of the stone or adobe houses of the town.
Then, in a tone of martial fervor he began to recite scraps from Shakespeare dealing with war and battle, Macbeth's defiance to Macduff, Richard on the battlefield, and other of the old familiar passages. But they were new to most of those about him, and Breakstone himself, as he afterward said, was stirred that night by an uncommon fire and spirit. Something greater than he, perhaps the effect of time and place, seemed to have laid hold of him. The fire and spirit were communicated to his audience, which rapidly increased in numbers, although he did not see it, so deeply was he filled with his own words, carrying him far back into other lands among the scenes that he described. The applause rose again and again, and always he was urged to go on. As he recited for the sixth time, a thick-set, strong figure appeared at the edge of the throng, and men at once made way for it. The figure was that of a man with gray hair, and with a deep line down either cheek. Breakstone's passing glance caught the face and divined in an instant his identity. The applause, the demand for more, rose again, and after a little hesitation the actor began:
"'My people are with sickness much encumbered
My numbers lessened, and these few I have,
Almost no better than so many French;
Who, when they were in health, I tell the herald,
I thought upon one pair of English legs
Did walk three Frenchmen, yet
Forgive me, God,
That I do brag thus. This poor air of France
Hath blown that voice in me. I must repent,
Go, therefore, tell thy master here I am;
My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk,
My army but a weak and sickly guard--'"
He paused a moment, but the man with the gray hair and lined cheeks still stood in an attitude of deep attention, and, skipping some of the lines, he continued:
"'If we may pass we will; if we be hindered
We shall your tawny ground with your red blood
Discolor; and so, Montjoy, fare you well,
The sum of all our answer is but this:
We would not seek a battle as we are;
Nor as we are, we say we will not shun it,
So tell your master.'"
He sat down amid roars of applause and universal approval. Did they not know? Mexicans were boasting already that Taylor would have to surrender to Santa Anna without a battle. Bill Breakstone stole a glance toward the place where the gray-haired man had stood, but he was gone now.
"Did you know that old Rough and Ready himself was listening to you there toward the last?" asked Grayson.
"Is that so?" replied Breakstone. "Well, I'm not ashamed of anything that I said, and now, if I've entertained you boys a little, I'd like to rest awhile. You don't know how hard that kind of work is, whether your work be good or bad."
Rest he certainly should have. They had found too great a treasure, these fighting men in a far land, to let him be spoiled by overwork, and they brought him an abundance of refreshment, also.
Breakstone drank a cup of light wine made in Saltillo, as he lay back luxuriously on a pallet in one of the tents. He felt that he had reason to be satisfied with himself, and perhaps, he, playing the actor, had seized an opportunity, and had made it do what might be an important service in a great campaign.