“Yes, General, and wondered.”

“It was true, though.  If it hadn’t been for Charles Wesley, I should never be here commanding these troops.  Wesley or Wellesley, sir—­ spell the name as you will:  the man who adopted my great-grandfather spelt it Wesley:  and he moved heaven and earth to make Charles Wesley his heir before he condescended to us.  The offer stood open for years, but Charles Wesley refused it.  I never heard why.”

What—­the hymn-man?”

“Even so.  Odd story, is it not?”

The man who was to be the great Duke of Wellington stared for a moment, lost in thought, at his rear-guard mounting the farther slope of the gully.  And as the British guns rolled onward into the dusk, back from the glimmering pass were borne the words of Wesley, Handel’s music wafting them on its majestic wings: 

     “Rejoice, the Lord is King! 
        Your Lord and King adore: 
      Mortals, give thanks and sing
        And triumph evermore. 
      Lift up your heart, lift up your voice—­
        Rejoice! again I say, Rejoice!”