The sound of the reveille, however, summoned him to his duty. On emerging from his marquee he saw that the camp was already in motion. The dragoons were rubbing their horses; the legion were polishing their arms; officers were superintending the mustering their several corps; and the whole scene was alive with bustle and noise—the neighing of steeds, and the voices of men mingling indiscriminately. Almost the first person Preston met was Serjeant Macdonald, dragging along the old butler. “Are you quite fit for duty, serjeant?” said Preston. “That was a bad example you set the men last night.” The serjeant looked somewhat abashed, and he stammered out his apology. “Why, you see, captain, we had no work on our hands, and the Jamaica was uncommon good. Besides, we wished to do honor to this gentleman, Mr. Snow, I believe.” “Not Mr. Snow,” said old Jacob, drawing himself up with dignity, “but Jacob Bakely, sar—massa gib me his own name. Massa Cap’n Preston know dat well enough,” and he bowed, but with a familiar smile, to our hero. “I remember you well, Jacob,” said he, “but I fear you do not find our quarters as comfortable as those at Mrs. Blakeley’s. We set out, in less than an hour, on a secret expedition, and perhaps you had better return home.” “Please God, no, massa!” interrupted the old man emphatically. “I volunteer sooner. Dis affair, I inspect, hab someting to do wid sweet missus Kate; and old Jacob will nebber desert her while he can fight.” “But he does not even know how to wield a sabre,” said Preston, turning to his serjeant. “Lord! I’ve had him at the broadsword exercise these two hours,” replied Macdonald, aside to Preston. “He’s wonderfully quick, considerin’ he’s a nigger; and he strikes, too, like a sledge-hammer. Besides, he’s red hot with courage just now—a reg’lar black lobster boiled.” Preston smiled. He saw that the whole matter had been arranged between the two confederates. “Well, since you are bent on trying a short campaign with us,” he said, “I shall make no objection. Only, if you are killed, what am I to say to your mistress?” Old Jacob looked aghast at the bare supposition, but he quickly rallied. “Nebber fear dat,” he replied grinning. “No, indeed,” replied Macdonald, “it would take a saw-mill to cut through your skull.” “My skull is not so tick as you tink, Massa Macdonald,” replied old Jacob, tartly, turning on the serjeant, “I hab you know dat, sar.” “Well,” said Preston, laughing, “no time is to be lost. Get ready at once to start.” The serjeant accordingly dragged off the volunteer, saying, good humoredly, “Keep close to me when we charge, and put all your muscle into every blow you make. You’ve one excellent quality, let me tell you, without flattery—you hate those English damnably.”