The same evening four battalions of the foreign legion were quartered at Villalba, four leagues nearer to Pampeluna. Upon an open space in the village, whence the sun had long since burned away the grass, a party of Germans sat upon scattered blocks of stone, and discussed, whilst a gourd of wine circulated slowly amongst them, an order just issued to hold themselves ready to march at a minute's notice.
"Who knows," said one of them, a tailor from Regensburg, "whether we shall be alive to-morrow? Let's have a song."
"A song, a song!" repeated another, a shoemaker from Rhenish Prussia, who had found himself uncomfortable in the Vauban barracks in Luxemburg.
"What shall it be?" cried a journeyman mechanic, who, when upon his travels, ran short of work and money.
Before any one could answer, a capering Frenchman struck up,
"Entendez-vous, le tambour bat, le clairon sonne," &c.
"Hold your infernal French tongue!" shouted the Germans. "Here's the sergeant from Munich will give us a song."
The Bavarian, nothing loath, struck up a song, whose simple strain and familiar words brought home and friends to the memory of all present. The melody echoed far through the still evening air, and, when it concluded, tears were in every eye, and no one spoke, save the Regensburg tailor, who muttered,
"God take us safe out of this cutthroat country!"
The sun went down. A few pieces of ship-biscuit were shared for the evening meal, and then the drums beat to roll-call, which was held in quarters, and at whose next repetition many a man then present was doomed to be missing.