“Lubin, you drunken dog, come hither,” a call which brought forth a servant-like person, who, by reason of his clean-shaven face and red nose, reminded the boy of Pattern the coachman.

He wore a dark cloth suit, cotton stockings, shoes that had neither laces nor buttons, but fastened with a kind of strap and buckle, and, queer creature, a big Eton collar!

“Sword and horse, rascal,” said the gentleman, “and warn Digby for duty.  Bring me wine and a manchet of bread.”

The man bowed and re-entered the tent, to emerge a moment later bearing the Sword.

How the cut-steel hilt sparkled and shone!  How bright and red the leather scabbard—­now black, dull, cracked and crumbling.  But it was unmistakeably the Sword.

It hung from a kind of broad cross-belt and was attached to it by several parallel buckled straps—­not like Father’s Sam Browne belt at all.

As the gentleman rose from his stool (he must have been over six feet in height) Lubin passed the cross-belt over his head and raised left arm so that it rested on his right shoulder, and the Sword hung from hip to heel.

To the boy it had always seemed such a huge, unwieldy thing.  At this big man’s side it looked—­just right.

Lubin then went off at a trot to where long lines of bay horses pawed the ground, swished their tails, tossed their heads, and fidgeted generally....

From a neighbouring tent came the sounds of a creaking camp-bed, two feet striking the ground with violence, and a prodigious, prolonged yawn.

A voice then announced that all parades should be held in Hell, and that it was better to be dead than damned.  Why should gentlemen drill on a fine evening while the world held wine and women?

After a brief space, occupied with another mighty yawn, it loudly and tunefully requested some person or persons unknown to superintend its owner’s obsequies.

“Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say I died true. 
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth. 
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth....”

“May it do so soon,” observed the tall gentleman distinctly.

“What ho, without there!  That you, Seymour, lad?” continued the voice.  “Tarry a moment.  Where’s that cursed ...” and sounds of hasty search among jingling accoutrements were followed by a snatch of song of which the boy instantly recognized the words.  He had often heard Dearest sing them.

“Drink to me only with thine eyes
And I will pledge with mine: 
Or leave a kiss within the cup
And I’ll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.”

Lubin appeared, bearing a funny, fat, black bottle, a black cup (both appeared to be of leather), and a kind of leaden plate on which was a small funnily-shaped loaf of bread.