Charlie lifted the wet sailcloth and crept in--the conclave did not look so very uncomfortable after all. Certainly there was but little room, but no men pack so close as soldiers. The old captain was sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket in the centre, clad in a russet-coloured coat that had once been scarlet, with gold lace tarnished down to the splendour of rusty copper. A pair of regimental trousers, plentifully patched and strapped with leather, adorned his lower man, and on his head he wore a once-burnished shako, much gashed and damaged by a Kaffir’s assagai. He puffed forth volumes of smoke from a short black pipe, and appeared in the most exuberant spirits, notwithstanding the deficiencies of his exterior; the real proprietor of the tent, a swarthy, handsome fellow, with a lightning eye and huge black beard and whiskers, was leaning against the centre support of his domicile, in a blue frock-coat and buckskin trousers, looking very handsome and very like a gentleman (indeed, he is a peer’s younger son), though no “old clothes man” would have given him eighteenpence for the whole of his costume. He had hospitably vacated his seat on a battered portmanteau, “warranted solid leather,” with the maker’s name, in the Strand--it seemed so odd to see it there--and was likewise smoking furiously, as he listened to the orders of his commander. A small tin basin, a canister of tobacco, nearly finished, a silver hunting-flask--alas! quite empty--and a heap of cloaks, with an old blanket in the corner, completed the furniture of this warlike palace. It was very like Charlie’s own tent at head-quarters, save that his cavalry accoutrements gave an air of finish to that dwelling, of which he was justly proud. So he felt quite at home as he took his seat on the portmanteau and filled his pipe. “Just the orders I wanted,” said the old captain, between his whiffs; “we’ve been here long enough, and to-morrow we are to advance at daybreak. I am directed to move upon that ‘Kloof’ we have reconnoitred every day since we came, and after forming a junction with the Rifles, we are to get possession of the heights.” “The river will be out after this rain,” interrupted the handsome lieutenant; “but that’s no odds; our fellows can all swim--’gad, they want washing!” “Steady, my lad,” said the veteran, “we’ll have none of that; I’ve got a Fingo at the quarter-guard here that’ll take us over dry-shod. I’ve explained to him what I mean, and if he don’t understand it now he will to-morrow morning. A ‘Light-Bob’ on each side, with his arms sloped, directly the water comes in at the rent in these old boots,” holding up at the same time a much-damaged pair of Wellingtons, “down goes the Fingo, poor devil, and out go my skirmishers, till we reach the cattle-ford at Vandryburgh.”