Brune was naturally shy and silent among women. Sarah made him eloquent, because she had the tact to discover the subject on which he could talk,--his regiment, and its sayings and doings. So Brune was delighted with himself; he had never before suspected how clever he was. Stimulated by Sarah's and Aspatria's laughter and curiosity, he found it easy to retail funny little bits of palace and mess gossip, and to describe the queer men and the vain men and the fine fellows that were his familiars. "And pray how do you amuse yourself, Lieutenant? Do you drink wine, and gamble, and go to the races, and bet your purse empty?" "I was never brought up in such ways," Brune answered, "and, I can tell you, I wouldn't make believe to like them. There are a good many dalesmen in my company, and none of us enjoy anything more than a fair throw or an in-lock." "A throw or an in-lock! What do you mean, Lieutenant? You must explain yourself to Miss Anneys and myself." "Aspatria knows well enough. Did you ever see north-country lads wrestling, madam? No? Then you have as fine a thing in keeping for your eyes as human creatures can show you. I'll warrant that! Why-a! wrestling brings all men to their level. When Colonel Jardine is ugly-tempered, and top-heavy with his authority, a few sound throws over Timothy Sutcliffe's head does bring him to level very well. I had a little in-play with him yesterday; for in the wrestling-ring we be all equals, though out of it he is my colonel." "Now for the in-play. Tell me about it, for I see Miss Anneys is not at all interested." "Colonel Jardine is a fine wrestler; a fair match he would be even for brother Will. Yesterday he said he could throw me; and I took the challenge willingly. So we shook hands, and went squarely for the throw. I was in good luck, and soon got my head under his right arm, and his head close down to my left side. Then it was only to get my right arm up to his shoulder, and lift him as high as my head, and, when so, lean backward and throw him over my head: we call it the Flying Horse." "Oh, I can see it very well. No wonder Rosalind fell in love with Orlando when he threw the wrestler Charles." "Were they north-country or Cornish men?" She was far too kindly and polite to smile; indeed, she gave Aspatria a pretty, imperative glance, and answered, in the most natural manner, "I think they were Italians." "Oh!" said Brune, with some contempt. "Chaff on their ways! The Devonshire wrestlers are brutal; the Cornish are too slow; but the Cumberland men wrestle like gentlemen. They meet square and level in the ring, and the one who could carry ill-will for a fair throw would very soon find himself out of all rings and all good fellowship." "You said 'even brother Will.' Is your brother a better wrestler than you?"