With mutual good wishes, Jack sending very kind messages to the countess and Irma, he shook hands with the count, and Linham saluted. They dismounted, and were going to cross the bridge on foot; but the count stayed them. ‘I want you both to accept the horses you ride,’ he said, ‘as a present to two gallant soldiers whom I only regret having met as enemies instead of as comrades.’ Jack was really touched at this new proof of kindness, and when they had parted he sat for some time watching the figure of the gallant count as he trotted away. He and Linham then crossed the bridge and soon met an English picket, who stared in open-eyed astonishment at the nondescript pair. The soldiers were healthy, well-fed, rosy-looking English lads in smart scarlet tunics, wearing good boots, their appointments being bright and clean. The sergeant, who had come from England but a few months ago, and knew of the winter misery only by hearsay, heard with astonishment that the two before them were English prisoners of war. They were taken to the officer commanding the picket, who was equally astonished, but who, at their request, passed them on to the cavalry camp. Presently they saw the rows of tents and the horse lines. Then lance-flags were seen fluttering, and a party of Lancers passed them. Jack and Linham stared in astonishment. All the men were smart, clean, and well clothed and booted. Even their uniforms were changed; the tunics had a white, turned-back facing. ‘These must be the 17th,’ said Jack; ‘look at the skull and cross-bones.’ They reached a sentry and dismounted. ‘Here, who are you, and what do you want?’ he cried. ‘We’re prisoners of war returned from captivity,’ said Jack. ‘What regiment do you belong to?’ ‘We did belong to the 17th Lancers.’ ‘Here, that won’t do!’ he cried; ‘stand where you are.--Tom, pass the word for the regimental.’ Jack and Linham stood humbly by their horses, while a little crowd of men, all of the 17th, but all strangers from England, gathered round them, staring curiously at the two travel-stained and battered arrivals. A big man came shouldering his way through the gazers, an officer followed him, and the troopers sprang to attention. ‘Here’s a couple of chaps who say they belong to “ours,”’ said the sentry; ‘but strikes me they’re frauds. They look more like rag-pickers than Lancers.’ The regimental stared at the new-comers; then Jack said, ‘Barrymore, don’t you know us?’ ‘Heavens above!’ cried Barrymore in mighty tones. ‘Stand back there, men!--Jack, Jim, God bless you both! we’d given you up as dead months ago!’ The officer approached. It was Leland, no longer cornet, but captain. He stared a moment; then took the hands of the nondescripts as Barrymore had done. ‘Who are they?’ murmured a trooper fresh out from England. ‘Who are they?’ roared Barrymore. ‘Why, men who covered themselves with glory while you were learning your drill at Canterbury. They’re Sergeant Linham and “Blair of Balaclava.”’