The baronet was not in the best of humours, therefore, as he stood upon one of the two raised platforms which had been erected on each side of the regimental colours, for the accommodation of the most distinguished guests. The colours were uncased, and drooped gracefully over a trophy of swords and bayonets, the whole being under the protection of two stalwart sentries in full uniform, who stood erect and impassive, like stone statues, perfectly unmoved by the revels in progress around. It was a signal honour to be permitted to mount guard in the ball-room, and only the finest-looking and the steadiest men were selected for the duty. But the duty was fatiguing, and the sentries were relieved every hour, the relief being carried out quietly, but strictly in accordance with the regulations, by non-commissioned officers carefully selected, like the sentries, on account of their smartness and gallant bearing. While Sir Rupert was standing scowling at the entertainment, for which, without sharing in the honour and glory, he would probably have to pay, the relief marched in. He looked on at the ceremony without interest, heard with indifferent ears the trite words of command, ‘Port arms, take post, shoulder, order,’ and the rest, when something in the aspect of the corporal in command attracted his attention, and he found himself looking curiously at the soldier’s face. Surely he knew it? Where had he seen it before? Then with a sudden start he remembered. The man was the living image of cracked Lady Farrington’s _protégé_--of that lad whom he, Sir Rupert, had inveigled down into Devonshire, and left there to starve. Could it possibly be the same man? Did the fellow know him? Apparently not. He was still debating the point as the relief marched away, when all doubts were set at rest by hearing a very young lady, a child, in fact (it was Edith Prioleau), say laughingly, and with the accents of Stratford-le-Bow, as she touched the corporal on the arm with her fan, ‘_En bien, Caporal Larkins, comment vous portez-vous?_’ To which the corporal replied, with a smile, ‘_Très bien, mademoiselle. Et vous?_’ There could be no mistake. Look, name, voice, all were the same. What a curious fatality! In the same regiment as his son--the true heir and the false serving side by side. Should he tell Ernest? Then Sir Rupert, pondering much, came to the conclusion that it would be best to keep his own counsel, but resolved to put, if possible, a watch upon the young man. CHAPTER X. MUTINY IN THE RANKS.