“Marie? She is the pearl of the regiment.”
“Does she live?”
“She does if I do. Steady, lady, steady.”
For the lady had to lean against the bank on which Marie had been sitting.
“I’faith, Marie’s fortune is made.”
“But the proof, the proof.”
“The proof—this letter, then!”
And from his stout breast the sergeant pulled forth a tough old pocket book, and from the book he took a letter.
This letter had been written just before the battle in which the captain fell. He had confided it and the child to a servant, who was unluckily knocked over by a stray shot. The child was found sitting by the dead servant, and there being no clue beyond the letter, which simply named the castle of Berkenfelt, the child was then and there adopted by the regiment, and taught to carry brandy keg, be good-humored and brisk, and beat a drum, as, indeed, has already been explained.
The lady took the letter I discovered with some emotion, but in the midst of it, she contrived to say, “I hope she has been well brought up.”