so exultant in their valour; and there was not a drummer-boy but knew the
legend, that wherever the two friends, Major Taunton, with the dark,
bright eyes, and Ensign Richard Doubledick, who was devoted to him, were
seen to go, there the boldest spirits in the English army became wild to
follow.

One day, at Badajos,--not in the great storming, but in repelling a hot
sally of the besieged upon our men at work in the trenches, who had given
way,--the two officers found themselves hurrying forward, face to face,
against a party of French infantry, who made a stand. There was an
officer at their head, encouraging his men,--a courageous, handsome,
gallant officer of five-and-thirty, whom Doubledick saw hurriedly, almost
momentarily, but saw well. He particularly noticed this officer waving
his sword, and rallying his men with an eager and excited cry, when they
fired in obedience to his gesture, and Major Taunton dropped.

It was over in ten minutes more, and Doubledick returned to the spot
where he had laid the best friend man ever had on a coat spread upon the
wet clay. Major Taunton's uniform was opened at the breast, and on his
shirt were three little spots of blood.

"Dear Doubledick," said he, "I am dying."

"For the love of Heaven, no!" exclaimed the other, kneeling down beside
him, and passing his arm round his neck to raise his head. "Taunton! My
preserver, my guardian angel, my witness! Dearest, truest, kindest of
human beings! Taunton! For God's sake!"

The bright, dark eyes--so very, very dark now, in the pale face--smiled
upon him; and the hand he had kissed thirteen years ago laid itself