"This is really the tug of war!" exclaimed Wilford, who, after various ineffectual efforts to uncork a champagne bottle, adroitly struck off its head by the stroke of a knife. "Yes, by Jove! and think of the mess!" added Jocelyn. "To feel," said the colonel, "that one has a soul—and what is more, an appetite, a taste, and decided predilection for turtle soup and _recherché entrées_—and yet compelled to appreciate this style of thing!" "I can appreciate everything and anything," exclaimed the paymaster. "Even an ’aggis, eh?—haw!" said Berkeley. "Yes, even a haggis. My stomach is as empty as a kettledrum," replied the paymaster, as he sliced away at the ham. "I think there is something going on in front," observed Wilford, pausing in the act of dissecting a fowl. "Yes," said Beverley; "Lord Raglan, with some squadrons of the 11th and 13th, has crossed the river to reconnoitre; but let us make the most of the present, our turn will come all in good time. Pass the wine, M’Goldrick; a slice of meat, Studhome—thanks." "Ugh!" remarked the paymaster; "’the bed of honour,’ as Jean Paul Richter says, ’since whole regiments lie on it, and frequently have received their last unction, should really be filled anew, beaten and sunned.’" "What—aw, haw—does that quotation mean?" asked Berkeley, adjusting his eyeglass, contracting the muscles of his eye, and giving our old Scots paymaster an inquiring and quizzical stare. "It sounds doocid queer, and—haw—unpleasant." "I was thinking of the hard bed I shall sleep on to-night, sir," replied M’Goldrick, rather sternly. "By Jove, some of us may sleep sound enough to-night yet," said the colonel, half starting up. "There is a decided movement in front, and here comes a French mounted officer." At that moment a subaltern of Zouaves, mounted on a French dragoon horse, in a somewhat excited manner, dashed up to where we lay lounging on the grass, reined his trooper sharply in on the bit, shouting something of which I could only make out the prefix, "_Messieurs les officiers_!" "_Diable!_ you don’t speak French?" he added, in English, to Travers of ours. "No, sir; I am sorry——" "_Peste!_" interrupted the Frenchman; "every staff officer should speak at least two European languages." "_Dioul na bocklish_! There, I can speak my mother tongue, being an Irishman; and if that won’t do, the devil is in it. But I am not a staff officer," he added, to the stranger, in whom I now recognized M. Jolicoeur, of the 2nd Zouaves. "The enemy is in great force in front, and your commander-in-chief, with the two regiments of your advanced guard, will be surrounded and cut off." "Lord Raglan, with the 11th and 13th!" we exclaimed, starting to our feet; and just at that moment an aide-de-camp, Captain Bolton, of the 1st Dragoon Guards, came galloping up, and exclaimed—