Of this Keller and Linn saw nothing. They were all eyes and ears for Alida, and had not a glance for us. The table was covered--we were soldiers and could help ourselves. Meantime I was kept busy answering the questions of Alida. She spoke in a low and thrilling contralto, a voice that had a _ron-ron_ in it, something like the pulsing whisper of a bell after it has been rung in a church tower. How had we left school? We must tell her. Tell her I did, describing as vividly as possible the laundry and the secret way out upon the road, then the good-bye call at my father's house, and our escape from the sentinel at the bridge end. It was lovely to see the cheeks of Alida now going pale now flaming scarlet, and I admit that I made the most of my opportunity. I passed rapidly over the troubles in Aramon-les-Ateliers, both because I knew such things could not interest Alida Keller--also (and chiefly) because I gathered that Keller and Linn would be altogether on the side of the workmen, and I did not feel called upon to defend the difficult position of Dennis Deventer as Manager of the Small Arms Factory--at least not just then. Our later adventures with the transport train, our march by night, our incorporation in the Garibaldi army, and the many skirmishes culminating in the big fight when we had defeated the Prussians, were all easy to tell--and I had scarcely finished when Linn came in with the news that the regiments were forming up for roll-call. We had hardly time to promise to come back before we were equipped and pushed out by Linn with well-plenished haversacks. We scurried across the square and appeared in our places out of nowhere in particular, to the great astonishment of Victor and Marius, who hastily arranged our blankets across our shoulders so that we might pass inspection. "You English fear nothing, I know," said Victor Dor, "but you almost ran things a trifle fine this morning. See yonder!" He pointed with a finger towards a narrow street which debouched into the upper end of the Market Square. At first we could see nothing--and then--lo, the ramshackle barouche, and the two fatigued white horses of the General himself! "_Garibaldi! Garibaldi!_" The "Children" of the Milanese regiment could hardly keep their lines. We front-rank men felt an impulse as if someone were pushing us from behind. It was the concentred yearning of a thousand men.