Though the clock in the corner had gone midnight, the general sat in a litter of papers with a lamp at his elbow and his legs stretched out to a bright sea-coal fire.  With him was closeted Colonel Pottley, of the London train-bands, and by the look of the papers around them they had been checking the lists (as two days later there was heavy court-martialling among the newly arrived drafts and cashiering of officers that had misbehaved in Middlesex).

‘You come from the Earl of Crawford?’ asked the general, not rising from his chair, but holding out a hand for the letter.

The messenger presented it, with a good soldierly salute; and so stood, pulling at his moustachios and looking fierce.  ‘Your name?’

‘Sergeant Orlando Rich, of the Earl’s Loyal Troop.’  The general broke the seal, ran his eye over the paper, and let out a short laugh.

’His lordship sends me his loving compliment and prays me to spare him a runlet of sack or of malvoisy, for that his own wine is drunk out and the ale at Alton does not agree with his stomach.’

‘Nor with any man’s,’ corroborated Sergeant Rich.

‘He promises to send me a fat ox in exchange, and—­’ the General glanced to the foot of the scrawl, turned the paper over, and found it blank save for the name and direction—­’and that, it seems, is all.  No talk of prisoners. . . .  Truly an urgent message to send post at midnight!’

‘If you had seen his lordship’s condition—­’ murmured Sergeant Rich.

‘His lordship shall have a full hogshead; but not by you;’ the General shot a shrewd glance at the man and bade me step outside and summon the quartermaster who waited in the corridor.  ‘Quartermaster,’ said he, ’convey this visitor of ours to the kitchens.  Give him what meat and wine he demands.  Let him depart when he will and carry as much as he will—­under his skin.  Meantime order out three of the pack-nags, and tell the cellarer to fetch up six firkins of the sack sent down to me last Thursday by Mr Trenchard.  Have them slung, a pair to each horse, and well secured—­ for the roads are slippery.  And you, Master Fleming—­’

I saluted; flushing, perhaps, a little with pleasure that he remembered my name.

’Do you mount guard to-night?  Then we must find you a substitute.  What say you to convoying this wine, with a trumpet, to my Lord Crawford?  You may choose half a dozen of your troop to ride with you.  The road to Alton cannot easily be missed; and, if it could—­ why, these night sallies are the best of training for a young soldier.  I doubt, Master Fleming, that since this morning, when I promoted you cornet, you have heard talk that glanced upon your rawness, hey?  Well, here is a chance for you to learn.  For my part I call no man a finished campaigner until he can smell his way through a strange country in the dark.  You fancy the errand?  Then go, and prosper:  and be sure my Lord Crawford will treat you kindly, when he has once tasted my wine.’