All. Amen!
Reb. To be trailed over the country like a pack of gipsies, after a little scrap of flag upon a pole, eh?
1st. Soldier.Rebolledo’s off!
Reb. And that infernal drum, which has at last been good enough to stop a moment, stunning us.
2nd. Sold. Come, come, Rebolledo, don’t storm; we shall soon be at Zalamea.
Reb. And where will be the good of that if I’m dead before I get there? And if not, ’twill only be from bad to worse: for if we all reach the place alive, as sure as death up comes Mr. Mayor to persuade the Commissary we had better march on to the next town. At first Mr. Commissary replies very virtuously, “Impossible! the men are fagged to death.” But after a little pocket persuasion, then it’s all “Gentlemen, I’m very sorry, but orders have come for us to march forward, and immediately,” and away we have to trot, foot-weary, dust bedraggled, and starved as we are. Well, I swear if I do get alive to Zalamea to-day, I’ll not leave it this side o’ sunrise for love, lash, or money. It won’t be the first time in my life I’ve given ‘em the slip.
1st. Sold. Nor the first time a poor fellow has had the slip given him for doing so. And more likely than ever now that Don Lope de Figuerroa has taken the command, a fine brave fellow they say, but a devil of a tartar, who’ll have every inch of duty done, or take the change out of his own son, without waiting for trial either.[8]
Reb. Listen to this now, gentlemen! By Heaven, I’ll be beforehand with him.
2nd. Sold. Come, come, a soldier shouldn‘t talk so.
Reb. I tell you it isn’t for myself I care so much, as for this poor little thing that follows me.