In his martial accoutrements, the dominie’s soul was stirred within him.  He repeated to his bosom friend pieces from Koerner’s Leyer und Schwert, but as the lawyer’s acquaintance with the Teutonic tongues was limited, including sauer kraut, lager bier, nix kum araus, donner-wetter, and similar choice expressions, he failed to make an impression.  Nobody in the house knew German, unless it were Tryphena and Tryphosa, who had picked up a little from their mother, and, of course, he could hardly lie in wait to get off his warlike quotations on them.  Ha! he remembered Wordsworth, and rolled forth:—­

“Vanguard of liberty, ye men of Kent!

* * * * *

They from their fields can see the countenance
Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance,
And hear you shouting forth your brave intent.”

Still failing to awake a responsive echo in the heart that once beat in poetic unison with his own, he turned to Mrs. Du Plessis, and, alluding to the departed colonel, recited in her native tongue:—­

“Honor al Caudillo,
Honor al primero,
Que el patriota acero
Oso fulminar. 
La Patria afligida
Oyo’ sus acentos,
Y vio’ sus tormentos,
En gozo tornar.”

“That is very pretty, Mr. Wilkinson, and I thank you much for recalling the pleasant memories of my early speech.  Is there not an English translation of these words?”

“There is, Mrs. Du Plessis, by Sir John Bowring, It is:—­

     Hail, hail to the Chieftain,
     All honour to him
     Who first in the gleam
       Of that light bared the sword! 
     The drooping land heard him,
     Forgetting her fears;
     And smiled through her tears,
       As she hung on his word.”

The dominie had thought only to give expression to the poetic fervour called forth by the circumstances, but accomplished a good deal more, the establishment of a common ground between himself and the nearest relative of a very charming and cultivated young lady.  The said young lady came up to join in the conversation, and request Mr. Wilkinson to repeat all that he knew of the battle hymn.  The lawyer was secretly of the opinion that his friend was making an ass of himself, and that, if he were to try that poetry quoting business on Miss Carmichael, he would soon discover that such was the case.  Yet, if the Du Plessis liked that sort of thing, he had no right to interfere.  He remembered that he had once been just such an ass himself, and wondered how he could have so far strayed from the path of common sense.  It was worse than Tryphosa and Timotheus sitting down to sing with a hymn-book between them.

“What are you doing out in the garden all by yourself, Eugene?” asked a small voice.  He looked down and saw Marjorie fingering the barrel of his rifle.  “Don’t you know,” she continued, “that all the people have gone in to dinner?”