Peter of the Lodge, Sewer and Seneschal--_Here_. Peterson ditto, Comptroller of the Cellars--_Here_. Kit Peterson, Tiger there--_Here_. Michael Dods, Cook at that Place--_Here_. Ben Brawn, Manciple--_Here_. Roderick M'Crimmon, King of the Pipes---_Here_. Pym and Stretch, Body-men to the young Englishers---_Here_, _Here_. Tom Moody, Huntsman at Under-cliff Hall, North Devon---_Here_. The Cornwall Clipper, Head Game-keeper at Pendragon--_Here_. Billy Balmer of Bowness, Windermere, Commodore--_Here_. NORTH. Attention! Each man will be held answerable for his subordinates. The roll will be called an hour after sunrise, and an hour before sunset. Men, remember you are under martial law. Camp-master M'Kellar--_Here_. Let the Mid Peak of Cruachan be your pitching point. Old Dee-side Tent in the centre, right in Front. Dormitories to the east. To the west the Pavilion. Kitchen Range in the Rear. Donald Dhu, late Sergeant in the Black Watch, see to the Barricade. The Impedimenta in your charge. In three hours I command the Encampment to be complete. Admittance to the Field on the Queen's Birth-day. Crowd! disperse. Old Boys! What do you think of this? You have often called me a Wizard--a Warlock--no glamour here--'tis real all--and all the WORK OF THE CRUTCH. Sons--your Fathers! Fathers--your Sons. Your hand, Volusene--and, Woodburn, yours. SEWARD. Hal, how are you? BULLER. How are you, Marmy? NORTH. On the Stage--in the Theatre of Fictitious Life--such a Meeting as this would require explanation--but in the Drama of Real Life, on the Banks of Lochawe, it needs none. Friends of my soul! you will come to understand it all in two minutes' talk with your Progeny. Progeny--welcome for your Sires' sakes--and your Lady Mothers'--and your own--to Lochawe-side. I see you are two Trumps. Volusene--Woodburn--from your faces all well at home. Come, my two old Bucks--let us Three, to be out of the bustle, retire to the Inn. Did you ever see Christopher fling the Crutch? There--I knew it would clear the Sycamore Grove. SCENE II.--_Interior of the Pavilion._ TIME--_Two_ P.M. NORTH--SEWARD--BULLER. SEWARD. Still at his Siesta in his Swing-Chair. Few faces bear to be looked on asleep. BULLER. Men's faces. SEWARD. His bears it well. Awake, it is sometimes too full of expression. And then, how it fluctuates! Perpetual play and interchange as Thought, Feeling, Fancy, Imagination---- BULLER. The gay, the grave, the sad, the serious, the pathetic, the humorous, the tragic, the whimsical rules the minute-- "'Tis everything by fits, and nothing long." SEWARD. Don't exaggerate. An inapt quotation. BULLER. I was merely carrying on your eulogium of his wide-awake Face. SEWARD. The prevalent expression is still--the Benign. BULLER. A singular mixture of tenderness and truculence. SEWARD. Asleep it is absolutely saint-like. BULLER. It reminds me of the faces of Chantry's Sleeping Children in Litchfield Cathedral. SEWARD.