The shaft bit, as he had intended, and the man's vanity positively foamed upon it. "Dog of a _ros-bif_, congratulate yourself that you are half dead, or I would whip you again as we whipped you yesterday, and as my regiment is even now again whipping your compatriots." He jerked a thumb towards the south where, far up the lake, a pale saffron glow spread itself upon the twilight. "The English are burning your fort, maybe," John suggested amiably. "They are burning the mill, more like--or their boats. But after such a defeat, who cares?" "If our general had only used his artillery--" "Eh, what is that you're singing? _Oui-da_, if your general had only used his artillery? My little friend, that's a fine battle--that battle of 'If.' It is always won, too--only it has the misfortune never to be fought. So, so: and a grand battle it is too, for reputations. '_If_ the guns had only arrived '; and '_if_ the brigadier Chose had brought up the reserves as ordered'; and '_if_ the right had extended itself, and that devil of a left had not straggled'--why then we should all be heroes, we _ros-bifs_. Whereas we came on four to one, and we were beaten; and we are being carried north to Montreal and our general is running south from an army one-third of his size and burning fireworks on his way. And at Albany the ladies will take your standards and stitch '_If_' on them in gold letters a foot long. Eh, but it was a glorious fight--faith of Sergeant Barboux!" And Sergeant Barboux, having set his vanity on its legs again, pulled out his pipe and skin of tobacco. "Hola, M. le Chameau!" he called; "the gentleman desires better music than mine. Sing for him 'Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre'!" M. le Chameau lifted his voice obediently; and thereupon John recognised the note and knew to whose singing he had lain awake in the woods so far behind and (it seemed) those ages ago. He had been young then, and all possibilities of glory lay beyond the horizons to which he was voyaging. Darkness had closed down on them, but the beat of the paddles drove him forward. He stared up at the peering stars and tried to bethink him that they looked down on the same world that he had known--on Albany--Halifax--perhaps even on Cleeve Court in Devonshire. The bowman's voice, ahead in the darkness, kept time with the paddles: "Il reviendra-z; a Paques-- Mironton, mironton, mirontaine! Il reviendra-z a Paques, Ou--a la Trinite!"