“Good; but first give me your money.”
“Money—money,—I have none.”
“Well, well, well, my young rustic. Come to-morrow, or, get some; and ask for me at the inn as soon as you like. Good night, good night.” And the doctor seemed rather glad to shuffle off, losing thereby, the feast to which he had been bidden.
“Ah, me!” sighed the youth, flinging down on a seat.
“Heigho! women are an awkward lot, as sure as my name’s Belcore,” said the sergeant, sauntering in. “Of course she loves me, and yet she will wait till this evening for the marriage. Hullo! hullo! rustic, what’s the matter?”
“I want money, and it seems I may want it.”
“Well, you’re a fine fellow; enlist, and you’ll have twenty crowns.”
“Twenty! did you say twenty crowns, Mr. Sergeant?”
“Look! here—jingle, jingle—here they are. And glory, and honor—and love—the soldier need never sigh.”
“Twenty crowns?”