Gray, as one of the party of dragoons who attended the Duke of Wellington, proceeded onward at a sharp pace through the marching columns, which his grace examined, with a close but quick glance, as he passed on, and after a march of seven leagues, came up with the Belgian troops under the Prince of Orange, who had been attacked and pushed back by the French.  It was about seven o’clock; none of the British troops had yet arrived within some hours’ march of the duke.  The party of dragoons were ordered to remain in readiness for duty in a cornfield near the road, on a rising ground, which commanded a full view of the country in front, while the duke and his staff proceeded to the left.

The four biscuits which had been served out to each man at Brussels the night before, with some cold beef, and the contents of their canteen, helped to regale the dragoons after their long and rapid march, while the stout steeds that had borne them found a delightful repast in the high rye that waved under their noses.  Here they beheld passing on the road beside them many wounded Belgians, and could see before them, at the distance of a quarter of a mile, the French bayonets glistening over the high fields of corn, and hear distinctly the occasional discharges of musketry from tirailleurs.  Gray’s heart leaped with joy, and he thought no more of Brussels.

“What’s this place called?” inquired one of the dragoons, generally of his comrades.

“Called!—­Oh, some jaw-breaking Dutch name of a yard long, I suppose,” replied another.  “Ax Gentleman Gray—­he’ll tell you.”

“Well, Mr. Gray, do you know the name of this here place?”

“I believe,” replied Gray, “we are near a point called Quatre Bras, or the four roads.”

“Well,” rejoined the other, “if there were half-a-dozen roads, it wouldn’t be too much for these here Flemingers—­yon road’s not wide enough for them, you see.  Look, here’s a regiment o’ them coming back!”

“Ah! poor fellows—­we might be in the same situation,” observed Gray; “remember that their force is not strong in comparison with the French, by the accounts that have been received; better to fall back at the first of a fight than at the last.”

“I say, Jack,” said another, with his mouth full of biscuit, “did you ever meet with such a devil of a roadster as the carpolar there with the glazed cocked hat?”

“Who do you mean?” said Jack.

“Why the dook, to be sure—­how he did give it us on the long road through the forest.”

“Ay—­he’s the lad; well, here’s God bless his jolly old glazed hat any way,” cried the trooper, swallowing a horn of grog; “he’s the boy what has come from the Peninsula just to gi’ ’em a leaf out of his book.  He was a dancing last night—­riding like a devil all the morning—­and I’ll warrant he’ll be fighting all the afternoon by way of refreshing himself.”

“He look’d serious enough this morning though, Master Tom, as he was turning out.”