“Bivouac? Nonsense!—bivouac! How would those fine fellows stand a bivouac, I wonder, with their white gloves and horsehair plumes? Besides, it’s beginning to rain. Bet you a dollar, it rains all night. Besides that, where would you put your money? If General Thouvenot should take your advice, ‘come down on both sides,’ and find your boxes ranged along that bank by the road-side—and that’s the only place to put them I know of—a pretty catch he’d make of it. No, no, Mr Y—; your only plan is to go on. Follow the lane till it brings you back into the high road above Bayonne. You will then soon find a village, which will afford you accommodation for the night.” “Very well, sir. I suppose, then, the sooner we move the better. Will you have the goodness, though, to put me in the way of getting the men their rations?” “Oh yes,” said the Captain; “yes, yes: I’ll set all that straight for you, in no time. I see you’re rather a young campaigner; and the officer of your escort, I suspect, is younger still. You can’t stay here to-night, that’s certain. Better see the General, though, before you move on; just report yourself, you know, and hear what he says about it. Step on to his quarters, that small house with a white front, and I’ll be after you directly.” I turned to remount; but what had become of Sancho? Two minutes before, I held his bridle in my hand. Now, he was nowhere to be seen. At length, in the distance, I caught sight of Jones’ legs, dangling from the pony’s side, as he trotted off towards the houses, with Nanny cantering after him. THE GREEN HAND. A “SHORT” YARN. PART IX.