“Captain Cranstoun, I have the honor of wishing you a safe passage, and speedy promotion in Heaven,” said Middlemore, draining off his glass.  “Devilish good port this of yours.  By the bye, as you have a better port in view, you cannot do better than assign over what is left of this to me.”

“Thonk ye, Mr. Meeddlemore,” retorted Cranstoun drily, yet good humouredly; “yeet as ye’re to be attoched to my deveesion y’ell perhops roon jeest the same reesk, and as it may be that y’ell not want more wine than we’ve taken the day, any moore than mysel’, a pleedge ye, in retoorn, a safe possage to Heeven, when a troost ye will be joodged for better qualities than ye poossess as a poonster.”

“What,” asked Gerald, with an unfeigned surprise, when the laugh against Middlemore had subsided; “and is it really in his own wine that you have all thus been courteously pledging Captain Cranstoun’s death?”

“Even so,” said Middlemore, rallying and returning to the attack, “he invited us all to lunch in his tent, and how could we better repay him for opening his hampers, than by returning his spirit Scot-free and unhampered to Heaven,”

“Oh, oh, oh,” ejaculated St. Clair, stopping his ears and throwing up his eyes; “surely, Middlemore, if you are not shot this day, it must be that you were born to be hanged—­no man can perpetrate so horrible a pun, and expect to live.”

“I’m hanged if I am then,” returned the other; “but, talking of being shot—­is a there another shot in the locker, Cranstoun—­another bottle of port?”

“The shot that is reserved for you, will bring you acquainted with another locker than Cranstoun’s I suspect,” said Villiers; “one Mr. David Jones’ locker—­hit there eh?”

The low roll of a muffled drum, suddenly recalled the party from their trifling to considerations of a graver interest.  It was the signal for forming the columns of attack.  In a moment the tone—­the air of ribaldry was exchanged for a seriousness that befitted the occasion, and it seemed as if a momentary reproach passed over the minds of those who had most amused themselves at the expense of Cranstoun, for each, as he quitted the tent, gave his extended hand to his host, who pressed it in a manner to show all was forgiven.

The English batteries had been constructed on the skirt of the wood surrounding the fort, from which latter they were separated by a meadow covered with long grass, about six hundred yards across at the narrowest point.  Behind these the columns of attack, three in number, were now rapidly and silently formed.  To that commanded by Captain Cranstoun, on the extreme left, and intended to assault the fort at the strongest point, Gerald Grantham had attached himself, in the simple dress, as we have observed, of a private soldier, and armed with a common musket.  In passing, with the former officer, to take his position in front of the column, he was struck by the utter