"What's that advertisement—the hand of Providence?" cried an impudent line soldier, leaning on his musket.
"Is it the hand that spanked Bismarck?" yelled another. The Turcos grinned under their scarlet head-dresses.
"Ohé, Mustapha!" shouted the line soldiers, "Ohé, le Croissant!" and their band-master, laughing, raised his tasselled baton, and the band burst out in a roll of drums and cymbals, "Partons pour la Syrie."
"Petite riffa!" said the big standard-bearer, beaming—which was very good French for a Kabyle.
"See here, Georges," said Jack, suddenly, "I've promised to be back at Morteyn before dark, and if your regiment is going to stick here much longer I'm going on."
"You want to send your despatches?" asked Georges. "You could ride on to Saarbrück and telegraph from there. Will you? Then hunt up the regiment later. We are to see a little of each other, are we not, old fellow?"
"Not if you're going Prussian-hunting across the Rhine. When you come back crowned with bay and laurel and pretzels, you can stop at Morteyn."
They nodded and clasped hands.
"Au revoir!" laughed Georges. "What shall I bring you from Berlin?"
"I'm no Herod," replied Jack; "bring back your own feather-head safely—that's all I ask." And with a smile and a gay salute the young fellows parted, turning occasionally in their saddles to wave a last adieu, until Jack's big horse disappeared among the dense platoons ahead.