“And where did you lose your leg, Tom?”

“Vittoria—­I ’appened to be carrying my off’cer, Ensign Standish his name, barely eighteen year old.  Shot through the lung he were, and a-trying to tell me to put him down and go, the fire being uncommonly ’ot there, you’ll understand, sir, and as I say, he were trying to tell me to drop him and run for it, and blowing blood-bubbles wi’ every word, when all at once I feels a sort of a shock, and there I was on my back and him atop o’ me; and when I went to get up—­damme! there was my leg gone below the knee, and no pleasant sight, neither.”

“And afterward?”

“Arterwards,” he repeated.  “Why, that were the end o’ my sojerin’, ye see; we lay in the same ’ospital ‘im an’ me, side by side, and he swore as I’d saved his life—­which I ’adn’t, look you, and likewise swore as he’d never forget it.  And he never ’as either, for here am I wi’ my own horse and cart, Tom Price by name, carrier by trade, an’ very much at your service, sir, I’m sure.”

Thus we climbed the hill of Pembry, by tree and hedge, and lonely cottage, by rolling meadow, and twilit wood, Tom the Soldier and I.

Much he told me of lonely night watches, of death sudden and sharp, of long, weary marches, and stricken fields, of the bloody doings of the Spanish Guerrillas, of Mina, and his deviltries.  And in my ears was the roar of guns, and before my eyes the gleam and twinkle of bayonets.  By the side of Tom the Soldier I waited the thunderous charge of French Dragoons, saw their stern, set faces, and the flash of their brandished steel as they swept down upon our devoted square, swept down to break in red confusion before our bristling bayonets; and the air was full of the screams of smitten, horses, and the deep-throated shouts and groans of men.  By the side of Tom the Soldier I stormed through many a reeking breach, swept by fire, and slippery with blood; and all for love of it, the munificent sum of eightpence per day, and that which we call “Glory.”  Bravo, Tom the Soldier!

And presently I became aware that he had stopped his horses, and was regarding me smilingly.

“Tom,” said I, “you are a wonderful talker!”

“And you, sir,” said he, “are a better listener, and, look you, a good listener is mighty hard to come by.  Howsomever, here’s the end o’ my journey, more’s the pity, but if you—­”

“Tom,” said I suddenly, “you never heard of Tom Cragg, did you?”

“Can’t say as I have,” he answered, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “though there was a Dick Snagget in the ‘Thirty-Ninth,’ I remember.”

“And you don’t know who ‘George’ is, of course?” I continued musingly.

“Why, I’ve knowed a many Georges in my time,” said he, “and then there’s George, Prince o’ Wales, the Prince Regent, as they calls him now.”

“George, Prince of Wales!” said I, staring; “by heavens, Tom, I believe you’ve hit it!” And, with the word, I sprang down from the cart.