‘He belongs to all,’ said the other. ‘He is a dragoon, a voltigeur, an artillerist, a pontonnier--what you will--he knows everything, as I know my horse’s saddle, and cloak-bag.’ Both parties now grew warm; and as each was not only an eager partisan, but well acquainted with the leading events of the two campaigns they undertook to defend, the dispute attracted a large circle of listeners, who, either seated on the green sward, or lying at full length, formed a picturesque group under the shadow of the spreading oak-trees. Meanwhile, the cooking went speedily forward, and the camp-kettles smoked with a steam whose savoury odour was not a little tantalising to one who, like myself, felt that he did not belong to the company. ‘What’s thy mess, boy?’ said an old grenadier to me, as I sat at a little distance off, and affecting--but I fear very ill--a total indifference to what went forward. ‘He is asking to what corps thou belong’st?’ said another, seeing that the question puzzled me. ‘I Unfortunately I have none,’ said I. ‘I merely followed the march for curiosity.’ ‘And thy father and mother, child--what will they say to thee on thy return home?’ ‘I have neither father, mother, nor home,’ said I promptly. ‘Just like myself,’ said an old red-whiskered sapeur; ‘or if I ever had parents they never had the grace to own me. Come over here, child, and take share of my dinner.’ ‘No, _parbleu!_ I ‘ll have him for my comrade,’ cried the young hussar. ‘I was made a corporal yesterday, and have a larger ration. Sit here, my boy, and tell us how art called.’ ‘Maurice Tiernay.’ ‘Maurice will do; few of us care for more than one name, except in the dead muster they like to have it in full. Help thyself, my lad, and here’s the wine-flask beside thee.’ ‘How comes it thou hast this old uniform, boy?’ said he, pointing to my sleeve. ‘It was one they gave me in the Temple,’ said I. ‘I was a _rat du prison_ for some time.’ ‘Thunder of war!’ exclaimed the cannonier, ‘I had rather stand a whole platoon-fire than see what thou must have seen, child.’ ‘And hast heart to go back there, boy,’ said the corporal, ‘and live the same life again?’ ‘No, I ‘ll never go back,’ said I. ‘I ‘ll be a soldier.’ ‘Well said, _mon brave_--thou’lt be a hussar, I know.’ ‘If nature has given thee a good head, and a quick eye, my boy, thou might even do better, and in time, perhaps, wear a coat like mine,’ said the cannonier. ‘_Sacrebleu!_ cried a little fellow, whose age might have been anything from boyhood to manhood--for while small of stature, he was shrivelled and wrinkled like a mummy--‘why not be satisfied with the coat he wears?’ ‘And be a drummer, like thee?’ said the cannonier. ‘Just so, like me, and like Masséna--he was a drummer, too.’ ‘No, no!’ cried a dozen voices together; ‘that’s not true.’ ‘He’s right; Masséna was a drummer in the Eighth,’ said the cannonier; ‘I remember him when he was like that boy yonder.’