Everywhere was life and bustle. Men were cleaning their arms, preparatory
to the march of next day. Others were cooking at the fires. Troopers were
grooming their horses. Snatches of song, and loud laughter, rose in the
air.

After wandering about for an hour, Walter rejoined his father. Captain
Davenant was sitting with the two officers of his troop, Lieutenant
O'Driscoll and Cornet Heron, by a fire, the materials for which the three
troopers who acted as their servants had collected. There was no cooking
to be done, for sufficient cold provisions had been brought with the
troop.

"You are just in time, Walter," his father said. "We are going to fall
to, at once, at our meal.

"Hand over that cold chicken, Larry; and do you, Tim Donelly, broach that
keg of claret. Give me the bread, Fergus--that's right.

"Now, gentlemen, here's a hunk each. Plates are a luxury which we must do
without, in the field. Now let us fall to."

Walter seated himself on a truss of straw beside his father, and thought
he had never enjoyed a meal so much, in his life, as the bread and cold
chicken, eaten as they were in the open air in front of the crackling
fire. Each was provided with a horn, and these were filled from the keg.

"Here's to the king, gentlemen. Success to his arms!"

All stood up to drink the toast, and then continued their meal. Three