Whenever L'Isle took holiday from his military duties, he was pretty
sure to take it out of his regiment, the next day. On parade, next
morning, he inspected the ranks, bent on detecting some defect in
bearing or equipment, and peered into the faces of the men, as if
hunting out the culprits in the latest breach of discipline. Men and
officers looked for a three hours' drill, to improve their wind, and
put them in condition. But, to their great comfort, he soon let them
off, and hastened back to his quarters. Arrived there, he called to
his man for his portfolio, and at once sat down to write as if he had
a world of correspondence before him. But it was plain to this man,
who had occasion to come often into the room, that his master did not
get through his work with his usual facility. He found him, not so
often writing, as leaning on the table in laborious cogitation, or
biting the feather end of his quill, or rapping his forehead with his
knuckles, to stimulate the action of the organs within, or else
striding up and down the room, in a brown study, over sundry
half-written and discarded sheets of paper, scattered on the floor.
L'Isle's servant wished to speak to him, but was too wise to disturb
him in the midst of those throes of mental labor. But, when pausing
suddenly in his walk, he pressed his forefinger on his temple, and
exclaimed, "I had it last night, and now I have lost it!" his
confidential man thought it time to speak. "What is it, sir, shall I
look for it?"

L'Isle stared at him, as if just roused from a reverie, and bursting
into a hearty laugh, bid him go down stairs until he called for him.

Down stairs he went, and told his two companions that their master was
at work on the toughest despatch or report, or something of that sort,