“Listen to the fellow,” said Giles, with a shudder. “The thought of his confounded thumbscrews and tourniquets is worse to me than a French howitzer.” “The devil a kinder-hearted fellow than Maurice,” said O’Shaughnessy, “for all that; and if his heart was to be known this moment, he’d rather handle a sword than a saw.” “True for you, Dennis,” said Quill, overhearing him, “but we are both useful in our way, as the hangman said to Lord Clare.” “But should you not be in the rear, Maurice?” said I. “You are right, O’Malley,” said he, in a whisper; “but, you see, I owe the Cork Insurance Company a spite for making me pay a gout premium, and that’s the reason I’m here. I warned them at the time that their stinginess would come to no good.” “I say, Captain O’Malley,” said Giles, “I find I can’t be as good as my word with you; my servant has moved to the rear with all my traps.” “What is to be done?” said I. “Is it shaving utensils you want?” said Maurice. “Would a scalpel serve your turn?” “No, Doctor, I’m going to take a turn of duty with your fellows to-night.” “In the breach, with the stormers?” “With the forlorn hope,” said O’Shaughnessy. “Beauclerc is so badly wounded that we’ve sent him back; and Charley, like a good fellow, has taken his place.” “Martin told me,” said Maurice, “that Beauclerc was only stunned; but, upon my conscience, the hospital-mates, now-a-days, are no better than the watchmakers; they can’t tell what’s wrong with the instrument till they pick it to pieces. Whiz! there goes a blue light.” “Move on, move on,” whispered O’Shaughnessy; “they’re telling off the stormers. That rocket is the order to fall in.” “But what am I to do for a coat?” “Take mine, my boy,” said Maurice, throwing off an upper garment of coarse gray frieze as he spoke. “There’s a neat bit of uniform,” continued he, turning himself round for our admiration; “don’t I look mighty like the pictures of George the First at the battle of Dettingen!” A burst of approving laughter was our only answer to this speech, while Maurice proceeded to denude himself of his most extraordinary garment. “What, in the name of Heaven, is it?” said I. “Don’t despise it, Charley; it knows the smell of gunpowder as well as any bit of scarlet in the service;” while he added, in a whisper, “it’s the ould Roscommon Yeomanry. My uncle commanded them in the year ‘42, and this was his coat. I don’t mean to say that it was new then; for you see it’s a kind of heirloom in the Quill family, and it’s not every one I’d be giving it to.” “A thousand thanks, Maurice,” said I, as I buttoned it on, amidst an ill-suppressed titter of laughter.