"And I a sous-lieutenant, just because I have been where powder was flashing! You can ride well, of course?"
"I defy the wildest Limousin to shake me in my saddle."
"And as a swordsman, what are you?"
"Gros Jean calls me his best pupil."
"Ah, true! you have Gros Jean here; the best 'sabreur' in France! And here you are—a horseman, and one of Gros Jean's 'eléves'—rotting away life in Nancy! Have you any friends in the service?"
"Not one."
"Not one! Nor relations, nor connections?"
"None. I am Irish by descent. My family are only French by one generation."
"Irish? Ah! that's lucky too," said he. "Our colonel is an Irishman. His name is Mahon. You're certain of getting your leave now. I'll present you to him to-morrow. We are to halt two days here, and before that is over, I hope you'll have made your last caracole in the riding-school of Nancy."
"But remember," cried I, "that although Irish by family, I have never been there. I know nothing of either the people or the language; and do not present me to the general as his countryman."