On reaching the village they found the street full of troopers, who were
busy engaged in cleaning their arms, grooming their horses, and removing
all signs of weather and battle. Ronald felt a thrill of pleasure at
hearing his native language spoken. He had now so far improved the
knowledge of French as to be able to converse without difficulty, for
Malcolm had from his childhood tried to keep up his French, and had
lately always spoken in that language to him, unless it was necessary to
speak in English in order to make him understand.

These occasions had become more and more rare, and two months of constant
conversation with Malcolm and others had enabled Ronald by this time to
speak with some fluency in the French tongue. None of the soldiers paid
any attention to the newcomers, whose dress differed in no way from that
of Frenchmen, as after the shipwreck they had, of course, been obliged to
rig themselves out afresh. Malcolm stopped before an old sergeant who was
diligently polishing his sword hilt.

"And how fares it with you all these years, Angus Graeme?"

The sergeant almost dropped his sword in his surprise at being so
addressed in his own tongue by one whose appearance betokened him a
Frenchman.

"You don't know me, Angus," Malcolm went on with a smile; "and yet you
ought to, for if it hadn't been for me the sword of the German hussar who
carved that ugly scar across your cheek would have followed it up by
putting an end to your soldiering altogether."

"Heart alive, but it's Malcolm Anderson! Eh, man, but I am glad to see
you! I thought you were dead years ago, for I have heard nae mair of you