What the issue might have been I cannot tell, for, hearing the scuffle behind him, the sergeant turned and began to retrace his steps. At the sound of his coming the combatants were seized with panic; their enmity changed to sudden friendship, and together they raced off towards the town. The sergeant descended upon me, and tapping me on the chest with the butt of his stick, said: "You’re a likely young man. What say you to taking service wi’ His Majesty? It’s a man’s life, fu’ o’ adventure and romance. The women, God bless them, canna keep their een off a sodger’s coat. Are ye game to ’list? There are great doings toward, for the King wants men to root out the pestilent Whigs frae the West country. Will ye tak’ the shilling?" The suggestion thus flung at me caught me at unawares. I turned it over rapidly in my mind. Why not? As a soldier, I should see some of the country, and if the worst came to the worst I had money enough in my belt to buy myself out. Moreover I might do something to redeem myself in the eyes of my uncle--for had not the de Bryddes fought nobly on many a stricken field for the King’s Majesty. So, without more ado, I stretched out my hand, and the King’s shilling dropped into it. "Come on," said the sergeant brusquely, "we maun toast the King at my expense," and he led the way to the Stag Inn near the Vennel Port. In the inn-parlour he called for drinks, and ogled the girl who brought them. We drank to His Majesty--"God bless him:" and then the sergeant, after toasting "The lassies--God bless them," became reminiscent and garrulous. But ever he returned to wordy admiration of a woman: "I tell ye," he said, "there’s no’ the marrow o’ the Beadle o’ St. Michael’s dochter in the hale o’ Dumfries; an’ that’s sayin’ a lot. The leddies o’ the King’s Court--an’ I’ve seen maist o’ them--couldna haud a candle tae her." He threw a kiss into the air; then he drank deeply and called for more ale. "By the way," he said, "what dae ye ca’ yersel’?--and whaur did ye get sic legs? They’re like pot-sticks, and yer breist is as flat as a scone. But we’ll pu’ ye oot, and mak’ a man o’ ye." "My name is de Brydde," I replied, ignoring his criticisms of my person. "De Brydde," he repeated. "It sounds French. Ye’d better ca’ yersel’ Bryden. It’s a guid Scots name, and less kenspeckle. Pu’ yer shouthers back, and haud up yer heid." Two dragoons entered the tavern, and the sergeant was on his dignity. "Tak’ this recruit," he said, "to heidquarters, and hand him ower to the sergeant-major. He’s a likely chiel." I rose to accompany the men, but the sergeant tapped me on the shoulder: "Ye’ve forgotten to pay the score," he said. "Hey, Mary," and the tavern maid came forward. The King’s shilling that was mine paid for the sergeant’s hospitality. It’s the way of the army. So I became Trooper Bryden of Lag’s Horse. *CHAPTER II* *TROOPER BRYDEN OF LAG’S HORSE*