Serjeant.—I would fain show you an extensive prospect, gentlemen. It is only a bit start of a pull up here. A mere breathing for you after the long rest you had by the water side yonder.—(Then addressing the gilly.)—My man, hold you on the road to Inchrory with the horse, and tell the gudewife there that we are coming.
Clifford.—’Tis a very stiff pull, Archy. But we shall be all the better for something of this sort to put us in wind. I calculate that we shall have some worse climbing than this before we are done with these mountains.
Serjeant.—Troth, you may well say that, sir; and as for this hill, we may be very thankful that we have not to climb it with a strong demonstration of the enemies’ riflemen lining the ridge of it.
Clifford.—You are out there, serjeant. Depend upon it, if we saw an enemy lining the height, we should both of us climb it like roebucks, to be at them.
Serjeant.—I’m not saying but we might, sir; that is, if we saw that we were sufficiently well backed. But for all that, we might find our graves before we were half way up the hill; and then what the better should we be, of our comrades saying, as they passed by us, “Poor fellows, you are settled!” Would that be any consolation to us, as we lay writhing in the last agonies?
Grant.—Very small consolation indeed, Archy.
Serjeant.—I wot it would be little indeed, sir. Yet ought a man to do his duty for all that, simply because it is his duty. Many is the time I have heard my good friend Captain Ketley say that; and there were few words fell from his mouth that had not some good sense, or some good moral in them. And certain it is, that if we did not always keep this rule of our conduct in view, we should neither be good sodgers nor good Christians.
Clifford.—Right again, old boy.
Serjeant.—And yet, Mr. Clifford, as I reckon, there is some pleasure in coming out of the skrimmage in a whole skin, and with ears that can hear all the honest commendations that are bestowed upon your own brave and gallant conduct.
Grant—(after reaching the summit of the hill.)—That was indeed a breather; but now, Serjeant, for the prospect you promised us, I see nothing as yet but the bare flat moist moory hill-top.