'O--the rats are good--the cats most excellent--we have no want of provision,' responded the gay Chevalier, and as they turned the angle of the works and disappeared, despite the rain and discomfort of the night, I heard him singing his invariable song-- 'O vive le fils d'Harlette! Normands, Vive le fils d'Harlette!' I resumed my task, and in less than five minutes, by twenty blows of my heavy hammer, had driven twenty spike nails home to the head, firmly and securely, in the vents of as many pieces of cannon, unheard and unseen; though I expected every instant to hear a shout, or receive a shot from the dark recesses of the angle-turrets. Had the night been fine or fair, this feat had never been accomplished; but I should have perished in attempting it. I now descended the parapet, and from the projecting cordon reached my ladder, recrossed the fosse, and on ascending the opposite side, left my means of ascent, together with my hammer, as a legacy to the enemy. The stockade was easily surmounted from the inside, and half blinded by the pouring rain and by the excitement of my own feelings, I rushed over the half-buried dead, and back towards the trenches to report that the Bastion de Louise had been deprived of its teeth. As the reward of my enterprise, I narrowly escaped being shot by my friends. On hurrying towards our lines, a voice crying _qui va là?_ from the angle of a trench, and the rattle of a musket made me pause; but being breathless by my race down hill, I was unable to speak. I had stumbled upon a trench guard of the young Marquis de Tonein's regiment. 'Qui va là?' shouted the sentinel again. 'Stand, monsieur, and deliver the parole.' '_Saint Louis._' 'Bon--good,' he replied, shouldering his musket. 'The countersign, if you please?' said I. '_Paris._' 'Thank you, friend musketeer.' '_Saint Louis et Paris_. Bon! a thousand thanks, Monsieur Ecossais. A rash fellow would have fired at once on any man rushing thus from the enemy's lines. And now, brave comrade, what of the Bastion de Louise?' 'It is fangless now.' 'Mordieu! you have accomplished your task. O monsieur, that I were you! we shall dance a cotillon there in the morning.' All blackened, muddy, and drenched, I hurried to the quarters of Sir John Hepburn, whom I found ensconced in the lower story of a ruined windmill, with the Viscounts Dundrennan, de Turenne, and Arpajou; the Marquis de Toneins; and Colonels Ramsay and Lesly, some sleeping, some smoking and drinking Rhenish and stroh wine by the light of a stable lantern; and to them I reported my success. The tall and stately Hepburn embraced me, all soiled as I was. He made me drain his cup filled with wine, and taking from his own breast the cross of St. Lazare, said-- 'Wear this for me; and be assured, Arthur Blane, that on my recommendation king Louis will more than confirm the gift. I here proclaim you the premier cuirassier of the Scottish guard!'