"As soon as you have finished your coffee," he added, "I will take you into the trenches, and there you will be out of danger."
I could not refuse. The trenches were at the bottom of the garden, near the entrance-drive. I had seen them yesterday, and in my ignorance thought of celery; now, I knew better. This morning, a tent was pitched a few yards from a long low wall of sods; and between the tent and the sods there was a small trench, about large enough to hold draining-tiles. Pointing to the wall, the general said,—
"There is Sebastopol," (pronouncing it correctly, accent on the to,) "and here," turning to the tent, "are my head-quarters. My sappers have just established a mine under the Quarantine Battery. In a few moments I shall blow it up, and storm the breach, if we make a practicable one."
Here the Protean coachman made his appearance with a leather apron and a broad-axe. He signified that all was ready. A lucifer was rubbed upon a stone, the train ignited, bang went the mine, and over went we all three, prostrated by a shower of turf and mud. The mine had exploded backward, and had annihilated the storming party. Fortunately, the General had economised in powder. Gradually we picked ourselves up, considerably bewildered, but not much hurt. Van Bummel attempted to explain; but I had had enough of war's alarms, and yearned for the safety and peace of Nassau Street. So I bade the warrior good-morning, and took the first down-train, multa mecum volvens; "making a revolver of my mind," Van Bummel would have translated it. I knew that our soil produced more soldiers even than France, the fertile mother of red-legged heroes; but I did not expect, in the Nineteenth Century and in the State of New York, to have beheld an avatar of the God Mars.
* * * * *
THINE.
The tide will ebb at day's decline:
Ich bin dein!
Impatient for the open sea,
At anchor rocks the tossing ship,
The ship which only waits for thee;
Yet with no tremble of the lip
I say again, thy hand in mine,
Ich bin dein!
I shall not weep, or grieve, or pine.
Ich bin dein!
Go, lave once more thy restless hands
Afar within the azure sea,—
Traverse Arabia's scorching sands,—
Fly where no thought can follow thee,
O'er desert waste and billowy brine:
Ich bin dein!
Dream on the slopes of Apennine:
Ich bin dein!
Stand where the glaciers freeze and frown,
Where Alpine torrents flash and foam,
Or watch the loving sun go down
Behind the purple hills of Rome,
Leaving a twilight half divine:
Ich bin dein!
Thy steps may fall beside the Rhine:
Ich bin dein!
Slumber may kiss thy drooping lids
Amid the mazes of the Nile,
The shadow of the Pyramids
May cool thy feet,—yet all the while,
Though storms may beat, or stars may shine,
Ich bin dein!