Captain Roger Egremont was the other dismounted officer, and he was saying,—
“It wrings my heart to think that to-morrow we shall give many of our own countrymen a mortal breakfast.”
“True enough, and I feel for the humble soldiers, misguided by those who should show them the right. For the officers, men who fight for a usurper, death should be their portion,” replied Berwick. “I hope we shall not be caught napping, as we were at Steinkerque. Do you know, it is the fashion at Paris now, to dress à la Steinkerque—cravats hanging loose, coats half-buttoned, perukes awry.”
“I went into that fight with nothing on but my breeches and shirt. I had a hat, but I lost it in the mêlée, and my shirt was torn straight across the back, and a private soldier stripped a dead man of a coat to cover my nakedness,” said Roger Egremont; on the day of Steinkerque he had won his captaincy.
Berwick, who had a voice in singing like the croak of a frog with the quinsy, began to hum below his breath Captain Ogilvie’s song,—
“The soldier returns from the wars,
The sailor recrosses the sea,
But I—I return no more, my dear,
I return no more.”
“I don’t know what brought that song to mind—I have not thought of it since we made that famous journey to Orlamunde, when you sang it to us sometimes—always prefacing, ‘You should have heard my cousin Richard sing.’ I would like to hear something from that unfortunate Princess.”