“I should have known her voice again amongst a thousand,” said the old sergeant, shaking his head; “and from the glimpse I caught of her she seemed but little changed.  I wonder whether she saw me.  Not that she would have recognised me; I am not what I was.  No one here has made me out, although a dozen years ago I was well known all over the Rock.  Besides, how could she see me?  I was on the other flank, and, fortunately, she left the general to inspect us by himself.  Poor man!  I had rather be a sergeant—­a private even—­than stand in that general’s shoes.”

CHAPTER VII.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

The Wilders’ party, after leaving the Waterport, passed through the Casemate Barrack Square and entered Waterport Street, the chief thoroughfare of the town.  It was a narrow, unpretending street, very foreign in aspect; the houses tall and overhanging with balconies filled with flowers; the lattice-shutters gaily painted, having outside blinds of brilliantly striped stuffs.

The shop fronts were small, the wares common-place; the best show was at the drapers, where they sold British calicoes and piece-goods in flaunting colours, calculated to suit the local taste.

The street, both pavement and roadway, was crowded.  In the former were long strings of pack-horses bringing in straw and charcoal from Spain; small stout donkeys laden with water-barrels; officers, some in undress uniform, many more in plain clothes, riding long-tailed barbs; occasionally a commissariat wagon drawn by a pair of sleek mules, or a high-hooded caleche, with its driver seated on the shafts, cut through the throng.  Detachments of troops, too, marched by:  recruits returning from drill upon the North Front, armed parties, guards coming off duty, and others going on fatigue—­all these cleared the street before them.  On the pavement the crowd was as diverse as might be expected, from the mixed population.  Stately Moors rubbed elbows with stalwart British soldiers; Barbary Jews, dejected in mien, but with shrewd, cunning eyes, chaffered with the itinerant vendors of freshly caught sardines, or the newly-picked fruit of the prickly pear.  Now and again, quite out of keeping with her surroundings, a rosy-cheeked British nursemaid passed by escorting her charges—­the blue-eyed, flaxen-haired children of the dominant race.

General Wilders walked along with head erect, returning punctiliously the innumerable salutes he received, quite happy, and in his element in this essentially military post and stronghold.  Mrs. Wilders seemed also to enjoy the busy, animated scene:  it was all so new to her, so different from anything she had expected, as she was at great pains to explain.  The sight of this foreign town held by British bayonets pleased her, she said; she was proud to think that she was now an Englishwoman.

“It is your first visit to Gibraltar, then?” said young Mr. Wilders, anxious to be civil.