“Go, Sir,” said he at length, as soon as he was able to find utterance for his words; “Go, sir, to your quarters; and before you leave them, a court-martial shall decide, if such continued insult to your commanding officer, warrants your name being in the Army List.”

“What the devil can all this mean?” I said, in a half-whisper, turning to the others.  But there they stood, their handkerchiefs to their mouths, and evidently choking with suppressed laughter.

“May I beg, Colonel C_____,” said I----

“To your quarters, sir,” roared the little man, in the voice of a lion.  And with a haughty wave of his hand, prevented all further attempt on my part to seek explanation.

“They’re all mad, every man of them,” I muttered, as I betook byself slowly back to my rooms, amid the same evidences of mirth my first appearance had excited—­which even the Colonel’s presence, feared as he was, could not entirely subdue.

With the air of a martyr I trod heavily up the stairs, and entered my quarters, meditating within myself, awful schemes for vengeance, on the now open tyranny of my Colonel; upon whom, I too, in my honest rectitude of heart, vowed to have “a court-martial.”  I threw myself upon a chair, and endeavoured to recollect what circumstance of the past evening could have possibly suggested all the mirth in which both officers and men seemed to participate equally; but nothing could I remember, capable of solving the mystery,—­surely the cruel wrongs of the manly Othello were no laughter-moving subject.

I rang the bell hastily for my servant.  The door opened.

“Stubbes,” said I, “are you aware”——­

I had only got so far in my question, when my servant, one of the most discreet of men, put on a broad grin, and turned away towards the door to hide his face.

“What the devil does this mean?” said I, stamping with passion; “he is as bad as the rest.  Stubbes,” and this I spoke with the most grave and severe tone, “what is the meaning of the insolence?”

“Oh, sir,” said the man; “Oh, sir, surely you did not appear on parade with that face?” and then he burst into a fit of the most uncontrollable laughter.

Like lightning a horrid doubt shot across my mind.  I sprung over to the dressing-glass, which had been replaced, and oh:  horror of horrors!  There I stood as black as the king of Ashantee.  The cursed dye which I had put on for Othello, I had never washed off,—­and there with a huge bear-skin shako, and a pair of black, bushy whiskers, shone my huge, black, and polished visage, glowering at itself in the looking-glass.