Fortunately the good lady did not stick long to one subject.  ’We are coming to Ferrybridge now,’ she said, ’where there was a party of ours left to support the beadles, and constables, and justices, and these sort of creatures that are examining papers and stopping rebels, and all that.’  They were hardly in the inn before she dragged Waverley to the window, exclaiming, ’Yonder comes Corporal Bridoon, of our poor dear troop; he’s coming with the constable man.  Bridoon’s one of my lambs, as Nosebag calls ’ern.  Come, Mr.—­ a—­a—­pray, what’s your name, sir?’

‘Butler, ma’am,’ said Waverley, resolved rather to make free with the name of a former fellow-officer than run the risk of detection by inventing one not to be found in the regiment.

’O, you got a troop lately, when that shabby fellow, Waverley, went over to the rebels?  Lord, I wish our old cross Captain Crump would go over to the rebels, that Nosebag might get the troop!  Lord, what can Bridoon be standing swinging on the bridge for?  I’ll be hanged if he a’nt hazy, as Nosebag says.  Come, sir, as you and I belong to the service, we’ll go put the rascal in mind of his duty.’

Waverley, with feelings more easily conceived than described, saw himself obliged to follow this doughty female commander.  The gallant trooper was as like a lamb as a drunk corporal of dragoons, about six feet high, with very broad shoulders, and very thin legs, not to mention a great scar across his nose, could well be.  Mrs. Nosebag addressed him with something which, if not an oath, sounded very like one, and commanded him to attend to his duty.  ‘You be d—­d for a——­,’ commenced the gallant cavalier; but, looking up in order to suit the action to the words, and also to enforce the epithet which he meditated with an adjective applicable to the party, he recognised the speaker, made his military salaam, and altered his tone.  ’Lord love your handsome face, Madam Nosebag, is it you?  Why, if a poor fellow does happen to fire a slug of a morning, I am sure you were never the lady to bring him to harm.’

’Well, you rascallion, go, mind your duty; this gentleman and I belong to the service; but be sure you look after that shy cock in the slouched hat that sits in the corner of the coach.  I believe he’s one of the rebels in disguise.’

‘D—­n her gooseberry wig,’ said the corporal, when she was out of hearing, ’that gimlet-eyed jade—­mother adjutant, as we call her —­is a greater plague to the regiment than provost-marshal, sergeant-major, and old Hubble-de-Shuff, the colonel, into the bargain.  Come, Master Constable, let’s see if this shy cock, as she calls him (who, by the way, was a Quaker from Leeds, with whom Mrs. Nosebag had had some tart argument on the legality of bearing arms), will stand godfather to a sup of brandy, for your Yorkshire ale is cold on my stomach.’