“What is the matter?” said Raynal, sharply.

“This is our affair, Colonel Raynal.  You have no command in this army.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, I have yours.”

“Not till to-morrow.”

“Why, you would not take such a pettifogging advantage of an old comrade as that.”

“Tell him the day ends at twelve o’clock,” said one of the colonels interested by this strange strife.

“Ah!” cried Raynal, triumphantly; “but no,” said he, altering his tone, “let us leave that sort of argument to lawyers.  I have come a good many miles to fight with you, general; and now you must decide to pay me this little compliment on my arrival, or put a bitter affront on me—­choose!”

While the old general hesitated, Camille replied, “Since you take that tone there can be but one answer.  You are too great a credit to the French army for even an apparent slight to be put on you here.  The rule, I think, is, that one of the privates shall hold the hat.—­Hallo!  Private Dard, come here—­there—­hold this hat.”

“Yes, colonel.—­Lord, here is my young mistress’s husband!”

“Silence!”

And they began to draw, and, in the act of drawing, a change of manner was first visible in these gay and ardent spirits.

“It is not I,” said one, throwing away his lot.

“Nor I.”

“It is I,” said Raynal; then with sudden gravity, “I am the lucky one.”

And now that the honor and the danger no longer floated vaguely over four heads, but had fixed on one, a sudden silence and solemnity took the place of eager voices.

It was first broken by Private Dard saying, with foolish triumph, “And I held the hat for you, colonel.”

“Ah, Raynal!” said General Raimbaut, sorrowfully, “it was not worth while to come from Egypt for this.”

Raynal made no reply to this.  He drew out his watch, and said calmly, he had no time to lose; he must inspect the detachments he was to command.  “Besides,” said he, “I have some domestic arrangements to make.  Hitherto on these occasions I was a bachelor, now I am married.”  General Raimbaut could not help sighing.  Raynal read this aright, and turned to him, “A droll marriage, my old friend; I’ll tell you all about it if ever I have the time.  It began with a purchase, general, and ends with—­with a bequest, which I might as well write now, and so have nothing to think of but duty afterwards.  Where can I write?”

“Colonel Dujardin will lend you his tent, I am sure.”

“Certainly.”

“And, messieurs,” said Raynal, “if I waste time you need not.  You can pick me my men from your brigades.  Give me a strong spice of old hands.”

The colonels withdrew on this, and General Raimbaut walked sadly and thoughtfully towards the battery.  Dujardin and Raynal were left alone.

“This postpones our affair, sir.”

“Yes, Raynal.”

“Have you writing materials in your tent?”