a litter of papers with a lamp at his elbow and his legs stretched
out to a bright sea-coal fire. With him was closeted Colonel
Pottley, of the London train-bands, and by the look of the papers
around them they had been checking the lists (as two days later there
was heavy court-martialling among the newly arrived drafts and
cashiering of officers that had misbehaved in Middlesex).

'You come from the Earl of Crawford?' asked the general, not rising
from his chair, but holding out a hand for the letter.

The messenger presented it, with a good soldierly salute; and so
stood, pulling at his moustachios and looking fierce. 'Your name?'

'Sergeant Orlando Rich, of the Earl's Loyal Troop.' The general
broke the seal, ran his eye over the paper, and let out a short
laugh.

'His lordship sends me his loving compliment and prays me to spare
him a runlet of sack or of malvoisy, for that his own wine is drunk
out and the ale at Alton does not agree with his stomach.'

'Nor with any man's,' corroborated Sergeant Rich.

'He promises to send me a fat ox in exchange, and--' the General
glanced to the foot of the scrawl, turned the paper over, and found
it blank save for the name and direction--'and that, it seems, is
all. No talk of prisoners. . . . Truly an urgent message to send
post at midnight!'

'If you had seen his lordship's condition--' murmured Sergeant Rich.