The miniature soldier, who had already smelt powder, strutted and swelled like a bantam-cock. His plumage, too, was nearly as gorgeous, and he seemed more than satisfied with himself and his advantages. In no other country, perhaps, could a combination so ridiculous, yet so admirable, have been found as in this union of innocence and precocity; this simplicity of the child, underlying the bearing of a giant, the courage of a hero, and the coquetry of a girl. Ten minutes precisely were allowed by the regulations of the late king between the mustering call and the “fall-in,” or final summons for the men to take their places in the ranks. The Musketeers lounged and straggled over their parade-ground, laughing, chatting, bantering each other; fastening here a buckle, there a shoulder-strap; humming snatches of bivouac songs, fixing flints, adjusting belts, and pulling their long moustaches, as they conversed, disrespectfully enough it must be admitted, in hoarse, short murmurs of Vendôme, Villeroy, Staremberg, Prince Eugène, Malbrook, the great military authorities of the day, and how old Turenne would have _arranged_ them one and all. The Grey Musketeers were so called from their uniform, which, except for its sober hue, shone as splendid as was compatible with the possibility of manœuvring. The men were all veterans; that is to say, had fought through one or more campaigns, so that many a young, delicate face in the ranks was seamed and scarred by the shot and shell of the enemy. The majority, however, were grim, and grey, and bronzed; men who could eat ammunition-bread and suttlers’ beef without fear of colic; who could sleep round a bivouac fire, and rise refreshed and ready to be killed; who had looked death in the face and laughed at him in a score of fields. A large proportion were of noble birth, and all were at home in the drawing-room, the refinements and delicate airs of which it was their affectation to carry with them under fire. They could be rough and outspoken enough, jesting with each other over the wine-cup, or arguing as now while waiting for parade; but put them before an enemy, the nearer the better, and they became lambs—ladies—perfect dancing-masters in the postures and graces they assumed. If the baggage was not too far in the rear, they dressed and scented themselves for a battle as for a ball. They flourished lace handkerchiefs, wore white gloves, and took snuff from gold boxes in the act of advancing to charge a column or to storm a battery. Marlborough’s grenadiers had many a tussle with them, and loved them dearly. “Close in, Jack,” these honest fellows would say to each other, when they saw the laced hats, with their jaunty grey cockades, advancing through the smoke. “There’ll be wigs on the green now—here’s _the Dandies_ a-coming!” And in good truth, ere _the Dandies_ and they parted, many a comely head was down to rise no more.