you--that precious treasure--in your saddlebags, will be changed into
a wet bundle on which large and indelible yellow stains have been made
by the soaked leather.

But it was no use to think of all this. The orders ran: "Horses to be
saddled, and squadron ready to mount, at 6.30." And they had to be
carried out.

It was still dark. I went out into the yard, after pulling down my
campaigning cap over my ears. Well, after all, the evil was less than
I had feared. It was not raining, but drizzling. The air was mild, and
there was not a breath of wind. When once our cloaks were on it would
take some hours for the wet to reach our shirts. At the farther end of
the yard some men were moving about round a small fire. Their shadows
passed to and fro in front of the ruddy light. They were making
coffee--_jus_, as they call it--that indispensable ration in which
they soak bread and make a feast without which they think a man cannot
be a good soldier.

I ran to my troop through muddy alleys, skipping from side to side to
avoid the puddles. Daylight appeared, pale and dismal. A faint smell
rose from the sodden ground.

"Nothing new, _mon Lieutenant_," were the words that greeted me from
the sergeant, who then made his report. I had every confidence in him;
he had been some years in the service, and knew his business. Small
and lean, and tightly buttoned into his tunic, in spite of all our
trials he was still the typical smart light cavalry non-commissioned
officer. I knew he had already gone round the stables, which he did
with a candle in his hand, patting the horses' haunches and looking