“And do you receive no pension as the son of an officer killed in battle?”

“No, sir.  When the living soldiers often have to go months without their pay, the sons of dead ones can hardly expect to be thought of.  But I don’t care; in two years I shall be old enough to enlist, and I shall go to the frontier and join Hepburn’s Scottish brigade, who are now, they say, in the French service.”

“They are fine soldiers —­ none better,” the officer said.  “But why does not the colonel of your father’s regiment ask for a commission for you?”

“The regiment is not in favour with the cardinal,” the boy replied with a smile.  “They are too Protestant for his eminence, and the colonel is not a man to ask favours if he is likely to be refused.”

“Well,” the officer said, “it is clear to me that you are a lad of spirit, and that you have done your best to prepare yourself for your profession as a soldier by studying military history, and I think it hard that, as the son of an officer who died in battle for France, France should have done nothing for you.  I have some little influence myself.  What is the name of this cabaret that Sergeant MacIntosh keeps?”

“The Scottish Soldier, sir.  It is near the gate of the barracks of St. Denis.”

“Do not go out tomorrow afternoon.  I will have a talk with him, and maybe I can be of some assistance to you.”

So saying, he touched his horse’s flank with his heel and rode on, while the boys continued their play.  The next afternoon the lad remained at home, to the surprise of the sergeant.

“What keeps you in today, Hector?  It is rare indeed that you are indoors in the afternoon.”

“An officer came along while we were playing,” the lad said, “and asked me some questions.  I told him who I was.  He said that he had some influence, and might be able to assist me.”

“What sort of assistance?” the sergeant grumbled.  “He must have influence indeed if he can get you a pension.”

“I don’t think it was that,” the boy said.  “I said that I should like to enlist as a volunteer.”

The sergeant laughed.  “Well, they do take volunteers as young as you are, Hector, but they must be cadets of a noble family.  You will have to wait another couple of years before they will enlist you, much less take you as a volunteer.”

There were a good many Scottish soldiers sitting in the room, when an officer rode up to the door and dismounted.

“It is a general officer,” one of the men said, looking out of the window, and as the door opened and the officer entered, all stood up and saluted.

“Sit down, men,” he said.  “I am not here to disturb you, but to have a talk with Sergeant MacIntosh.  Have you a room, sergeant, where we can speak privately?”

“Yes, general,” the sergeant said, saluting again, and led the way into a little room generally devoted to the use of noncommissioned officers.  The officer caught Hector’s eye, and beckoned to him to follow.