"Well, good or bad, the story in substance is true," said Randal, "and puts the Englishman in a fine point of view--a generous fellow, sharing his supper with his enemy whose sword may be through his body in the next morning's 'affair.'"

"But the Frenchman was generous to him first," remarked the Squire.

"Certainly--I admit it," said Randal. "In short, they were both fine fellows."

"Oh, sir," said Father Phil, "the French are not deficient in a chivalrous spirit. I heard once a very pretty little bit of anecdote about the way they behaved to one of our regiments on a retreat in Spain."

"_Your_ regiments!" said Moriarty, who was rather fond of hitting hard at a priest when he could; "a regiment of friars is it?"

"No, captain, but of soldiers; and it's going through a river they were, and the French, taking advantage of their helpless condition, were peppering away at them hard and fast."

"Very generous indeed!" said Moriarty, laughing.

"Let me finish my story, captain, before you quiz it. I say they were peppering them sorely while they were crossing the river, until some women--the followers of the camp--ran down (poor creatures) to the sh.o.r.e, and the stream was so deep in the middle they could scarcely ford it; so some dragoons who were galloping as hard as they could out of the fire pulled up on seeing the condition of the women-kind, and each horseman took up a woman behind him, though it diminished his own power of speeding from the danger. The moment the French saw this act of manly courtesy, they ceased firing, gave the dragoons a cheer, and as long as the women were within gunshot, not a trigger was pulled in the French line, but volleys of cheers instead of ball-cartridge was sent after the brigade till all the women were over. Now wasn't that generous?"

"'T was a handsome thing!" was the universal remark.

"And 'faith I can tell you, Captain Moriarty, the army took advantage of it; for there was a great struggle to have the pleasure of the ladies'

company over the river."

"I dare say, Father Phil," said the Squire, laughing.

"Throth, Squire," said the _padre_, "fond of the girls as the soldiers have the reputation of being, they never liked them better than that same day."

"Yes, yes," said Moriarty, a little piqued, for he rather affected the "dare-devil,"

"I see you mean to insinuate that we soldiers fear fire."

"I did not say 'fear,' captain--but they'd like to get out of it, for all that, and small blame to them--aren't they flesh and blood like ourselves?"

"Not a bit like you," said Moriarty. "You sleek and smooth gentlemen who live in luxurious peace know little of a soldier's danger or feelings."

"Captain, we all have our dangers to go through; and may be a priest has as many as a soldier; and we only show a difference of taste, after all, in the selection."

"Well, Father Blake, all I know is, that a true soldier fears nothing!"

said Moriarty with energy.

"Maybe so," answered Father Phil, quietly. "It is quite clear, however,"

said Murphy, "that war, with all its horrors, can call out occasionally the finer feelings of our natures; but it is only such redeeming traits as those we have heard which can reconcile us to it. I remember having heard an incident of war, myself, which affected me much," said Murphy, who caught the infection of military anecdote which circled the table; and indeed there is no more catching theme can be started among men, for it may be remarked that whenever it is broached it flows on until it is rather more than time to go to the ladies.

"It was in the earlier portion of the memorable day of Waterloo," said Murphy, "that a young officer of the Guards received a wound which brought him to the ground. His companions rushed on to seize some point which their desperate valour was called on to carry, and he was left, utterly unable to rise, for the wound was in his foot. He lay for some hours with the thunder of that terrible day ringing around him, and many a rush of horse and foot had pa.s.sed close beside him. Towards the close of the day he saw one of the Black Brunswick dragoons approaching, who drew rein as his eye caught the young Guardsman, pale and almost fainting, on the ground. He alighted, and finding he was not mortally wounded, a.s.sisted him to rise, lifted him into his saddle, and helped to support him there while he walked beside him to the English rear. The Brunswicker was an old man; his brow and moustache were grey; despair was in his sunken eye, and from time to time he looked up with an expression of the deepest yearning into the face of the young soldier, who saw big tears rolling down the veteran's cheek while he gazed upon him. 'You seem in bitter sorrow, my kind friend,' said the stripling. 'No wonder,' answered the old man, with a hollow groan. 'I and my three boys were in the same regiment--they were alive the morning of Ligny--I am childless to-day. But I have revenged them!' he said fiercely, and as he spoke he held out his sword, which was literally red with blood. 'But, oh! that will not bring me back my boys!' he exclaimed, relapsing into his sorrow. 'My three gallant boys!'--and again he wept bitterly, till clearing his eyes from the tears, and looking up in the young soldier's handsome face, he said tenderly, 'You are like my youngest one, and I could not let you lie on the field.'"

Even the rollicking Murphy's eyes were moist as he recited this anecdote; and as for Father Phil, he was quite melted, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. in an under tone, "Oh, my poor fellow! my poor fellow!"

"So there," said Murphy, "is an example of a man, with revenge in his heart, and his right arm tired with slaughter, suddenly melted into gentleness by a resemblance to his child."

"'T is very touching, but very sad," said the Squire.

"My dear sir," said the doctor, with his peculiar dryness, "sadness is the princ.i.p.al fruit which warfare must ever produce. You may talk of glory as long as you like, but you cannot have your laurel without your cypress, and though you may select certain bits of sentiment out of a ma.s.s of horrors, if you allow me, I will give you one little story which shan't keep you long, and will serve as a commentary upon war and glory in general.

"At the peace of 1803, I happened to be travelling through a town in France where a certain count I knew resided. I waited upon him, and he received me most cordially, and invited me to dinner. I made the excuse that I was only _en route_, and supplied with but traveling costume, and therefore not fit to present myself amongst the guests of such a house as his. He a.s.sured me I should only meet his own family, and pledged himself for Madame la Comtesse being willing to waive the ceremony of a _grande toilette_. I went to the house at the appointed hour, and as I pa.s.sed through the hall I cast a glance at the dining-room and saw a very long table laid. On arriving at the reception-room, I taxed the count with having broken faith with me, and was about making my excuses to the countess when she a.s.sured me the count had dealt honestly by me, for that I was the only guest to join the family party. Well, we sat down to dinner, three-and-twenty persons; myself, the count and countess, and their _twenty children!_ and a more lovely family I never saw; he a man in the vigour of life, she a still attractive woman, and these their offspring lining the table, where the happy eyes of father and mother glanced with pride and affection from one side to the other on these future staffs of their old age. Well, the peace of Amiens was of short duration, and I saw no more of the count till Napoleon's abdication. Then I visited France again, and saw my old friend. But it was a sad sight, sir, in that same house, where, little more than ten years before, I had seen the bloom and beauty of twenty children, to sit down with _three_--all he had left him. His sons had fallen in battle--his daughters had died widowed, leaving but orphans. And thus it was all over France. While the public voice shouted 'Glory!'

wailing was in her homes. Her temple of victory was filled with trophies, but her hearths were made desolate."

"Still, sir, a true soldier fears nothing," repeated Moriarty.

"_Baithershin,_" said Father Phil. "'Faith I have been in places of danger you'd be glad to get out of, I can tell you, as bould as you are, captain."

"You'll pardon me for doubting you, Father Blake," said Moriarty, rather huffed.

"'Faith then you wouldn't like to be where I was before I came here; that is, in a mud cabin, where I was giving the last rites to six people dying in the typhus fever."

"Typhus!" exclaimed Moriarty, growing pale, and instinctively withdrawing his chair as far as he could from the _padre_ beside whom he sat.

"Ay, typhus, sir; most inveterate typhus."

"Gracious Heaven!" said Moriarty, rising, "how can you do such a dreadful thing as run the risk of bearing infection into society?"

"I thought soldiers were not afraid of anything," said Father Phil, laughing at him; and the rest of the party joined in the merriment.

"Fairly hit, Moriarty," said d.i.c.k.

"Nonsense," said Moriarty; "when I spoke of danger, I meant such open danger as--in short, not such insidious lurking abomination as infection; for I contend that--"

"Say no more, Randal," said Growling, "you're done!--Father Phil has floored you."

"I deny it," said Moriarty, warmly; but the more he denied it, the more every one laughed at him.

"You're more frightened than hurt, Moriarty," said the Squire; "for the best of the joke is, Father Phil wasn't in contact with typhus at all, but was riding with me--and 'tis but a joke."

Here they all roared at Moriarty, who was excessively angry, but felt himself in such a ridiculous position that he could not quarrel with anybody.

"Pardon me, my dear captain," said the Father; "I only wanted to show you that a poor priest has to run the risk of his life just as much as the boldest soldier of them all. But don't you think, Squire, 't is time to join the ladies? I'm sure the tay will be tired waiting for us."

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

Mrs. Egan was engaged in some needlework, and f.a.n.n.y turning over the leaves of a music-book, and occasionally humming some bars of her favourite songs, as the gentlemen came into the drawing-room. f.a.n.n.y rose from the pianoforte as they entered.

"Oh, Miss Dawson," exclaimed Moriarty, "why tantalise us so much as to let us see you seated in that place where you can render so much delight, only to leave it as we enter?"

f.a.n.n.y turned off the captain's flourishing speech with a few lively words and a smile, and took her seat at the tea-table to do the honours. "The captain," said Father Phil to the doctor, "is equally great in love or war."

"And knows about as little of one as the other," said the doctor. "His attacks are too open."

"And therefore easily foiled," said Father Phil; "How that pretty creature, with the turn of a word and a curl of her lip, upset him that time! Oh! what a powerful thing a woman's smile is, doctor? I often congratulate myself that my calling puts all such mundane follies and attractions out of my way, when I see and know what fools wise men are sometimes made by silly girls. Oh, it is fearful, doctor; though, of course, part of the mysterious dispensation of an all-wise Providence."