“My brief! God knows it's little I know about brief and parchments,” sighed Terry, heavily. “Come, come, man, what's the use of fencing? I see your hand; I know every trump in it.” Driscoll shook his head, and muttered something about the “faver that destroyed him entirely.” “Ah!” sighed Classon, “I cannot well picture to my mind what you might have been anterior to that calamity, but what remains is still remarkable,--very remarkable. And now I ask again, on which side are you engaged?” “Dear me,--dear me!” groaned out Terry; “it's a terrible world we live in!” “Truly and well observed, Driscoll. Life is nothing but a long and harassing journey, with accidents at every stage, and mischances at every halt; meanwhile, for whom do you act?” The door at the end of the long gallery was slightly and noiselessly opened at this instant, and a signal with a hand caught Driscoll's attention. Rapid and stealthy as was the motion, Classon turned hastily round and detected it. “Sit still, Driscoll,” said he, smiling, “and let us talk this matter over like men of sense and business. It's clear enough, my worthy friend, that neither you nor I are rich men.” Driscoll sighed an assent. “That, on the contrary, we are poor, struggling, hard-toiling fellows, mortgaging the good talents Fortune has blessed us with to men who have been born to inferior gifts but better opportunities.” Another sigh from Terry. “You and I, as I have observed, have been deputed out here to play a certain game. Let us be, therefore, not opponents, but partners. One side only can win, let us both be at that side.” Again Terry sighed, but more faintly than before. “Besides,” said Classon, rising and turning his back to the fire, while he stuck his hands in his pockets, “I'm an excellent colleague, and, unless the world wrongs me, a most inveterate enemy.” “Will he live, do you think?” said Terry, with a gesture of his thumb to indicate him of whom he spoke. “No; impossible,” said Classon, confidently; “he stands in the report fatally wounded, and I have it confidentially that there's not a chance for him.” “And his claim dies with him?” “That's by no means so sure; at least, we'd be all the safer if we had his papers, Master Driscoll.” “Ay!” said Driscoll, knowingly. “Now, which of us is to do the job, Driscoll? That's the question. I have my claim to see him, as chaplain to the--I 'm not sure of the name of what branch of the service--we'll say the 'Irregular Contingent' Legion. What are you, my respected friend?” “A connection of the family, on the mother's side,” said Terry, with a leer. “A connection of the family!” laughed out Classon. “Nothing better.” “But, after all,” sighed Terry, despondingly, “there's another fellow before us both,--that chap had brought out the news to the camp, Mr. Reggis, from the house of Swindal and Reggis.” “He's cared for already,” said Classon, with a grin.