"Sir," said Lord Sydney, "I present Trooper Browne."
"Trooper Browne, kneel."
The lad bent his knee to the ground, and the Captain spoke again.
"I bid you lay your hands in mine."
Tremulous, the lad held out his hands until the Captain clasped them in his own, and began indifferently to deliver the great oath based upon Alfred Tennyson's code of Honour:
"And swear
To reverence the Queen as if she were
Your conscience, and your conscience as the Queen.
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ.
To ride abroad redressing human wrong.
To honour your own word as though your God's.
To speak no slander, nay, or listen to it.
To live a life of purest chastity.
To love one maiden only, cleave to her
And worship her with years of noble deeds."
Then the air rang with music, while the Captain, Lord Sydney attending as a squire, put upon the lad a tunic of mail, and on his head the lion-crested casque, bound spurs upon his feet, hung a sword from his belt and bade him in his life and to his death be ever a Christian, a gentleman, a soldier, in the service of Almighty God, the British Empire, and our Sovereign Lady.
The stately ritual was scarcely over, the regiment had not begun to disperse, the men just relieved from guard were still clattering in for dinner, when the great doors swung open at the back of the dais, and instantly every man in the room sprang at attention.
For the usher had announced—"Her Majesty," and Margaret, attended by her ladies, entered the mess-room.
"Cousin," said our Lady to the Captain, "we have come to demand the head of Sergeant Dymoke."