The little drummer’s hand went up to his cap.
The captain said:
“Thou art brave.”
The boy’s eyes flashed.
“Yes, captain,” he answered.
“Look down yonder,” said the captain, taking him to the window, “on the ground, near the house of Villafranca, where those bayonets glisten. There is our regiment, motionless. Take this paper, grasp this rope, let yourself down from the window, cross the hill like lightning, rush through the fields, reach our men, and give this paper to the first officer you see. Take off your belt and knapsack.”
The drummer took off his belt and knapsack, and hid the paper in his breast pocket; the sergeant threw out the rope, holding fast one end; the captain helped the boy jump through the window, his back toward the fields.
“Be careful,” said he, “the salvation of this detachment depends on thy valor and thy legs.”
“Trust me, captain,” said the drummer, sliding down.
“Crouch low when you drop,” again said the captain, taking hold of the rope, too.