Monck carved the turkey, and requested Colonel Rosenthal to cut the ham. The orderly handed the plates, and the dinner commenced. Monck, the guerrilla, is said never to have appeared to greater advantage than when seated at the head of his own table. He was really, as he had proclaimed himself to be, a good feeder. He was also a good drinker, and he enjoyed eating and drinking excessively, especially in the company of an agreeable companion, such as he was disposed to consider his prisoner. Monck was obstinate and stolid, and disposed to enjoy himself; so he either would not, or could not, perceive that Colonel Rosenthal shared his society under protest, or had done so, rather; for now the Russian’s rhyme was running in Justin’s head, and somewhat modifying his feelings: “Where the bread and salt are met All thoughts of hate should pass away.” The dinner was very protracted. The major, and of course his prisoner guest, lingered long over the first course, longer still over the second, and longest over the third; so that it was after six o’clock, and growing dark, when Monck called out to his attendants: “Clear the table now; and bring us lights, and more brandy, and pipes, and tobacco. We’ll make a night of it!——And here! throw some more logs on to the fire. Let us have a roaring blaze!” Monck’s orders were promptly obeyed. The table was cleared of the _debris_ of the dessert, and pipes, tobacco, cigars, brandy and whiskey set upon it; and two candles stuck into black bottles, were placed beside them. Lastly, four or five huge pine logs were thrown upon the fire, which now burst into a broad flame, illumining the whole room with a cheerful light. Colonel Rosenthal, seeing these preparations for “making a night of it,” arose from his chair to leave the table. But Monck, with friendly earnestness, laid his sledgehammer hand upon the prisoner guest’s shoulder and forced him back into his seat, saying cordially: “No, no, no! Don’t often get a boon companion, and can’t let you go! You needn’t drink, since you don’t like it! but you have no German blood in you, as your name would indicate, if you don’t like a good smoke! Sit down and try some of these cigars.” Thus pressed, Colonel Rosenthal resumed his seat. An hour went by, during which the blazing wood-fire roared and crackled in the chimney, lighting up the whole room in which Monck and his prisoner sat at table—Monck smoking and drinking, his prisoner smoking and thinking. Occasionally, as through the day, officers and men came to make reports and receive instructions and went away to execute orders. These were the only interruptions, and they were very brief ones. And at length these also ceased. The tattoo was beat, the guards set, and the camp subsided to repose, and the guerrilla chief and his guest were left in peace. But not for any long time. Another hour was passing slowly by, when the stillness was broken by an unusual noise without.