"My dear fellow--ah, ah! you should remember the old saw--in this world expect everything, and be astonished at nothing. I crave your pardon, as it is not pleasant to have one's promotion stopped, and be a prisoner of war. 'Twas all a mistake--a deuced error in judgment, as the Court said which shot Admiral Byng. But don't attempt to swim the river," he exclaimed, on seeing that in my fury I made my horse rear wildly up; "it is too broad, too deep and rapid. Surrender with a good grace--discretion is the better part of valour. Here come the French Light Troops. Zounds! and they are firing, too!" And with an ironical smile, which I could see distinctly, he waved his hand with a mock salute, and somewhat hastily entered the tower of Freyenthal, for a few scattered files of the Volontaires de Clermont, when they came up, opened a fire upon our men, who, in bewilderment at the whole affair, were loitering at the other end of the ruined bridge. "I have swam baith Esk and Liddle in full flood, and damn me if I won't swim this!" exclaimed Hob Elliot, who was about to spur his horse madly into the stream, when I caught his bridle. And thus, in less than five minutes, with my ten troopers, I found myself disarmed, dismounted, and marched off a prisoner of war, in presence of Colonel Preston and the remainder of the Light Troop, through the cowardice or treachery--I knew not which--of Shirley the aide-de-camp. CHAPTER VI. LES VOLONTAIRES DE CLERMONT. My handsome grey trooper was bestrode by a dapper little French sous-lieutenant, who seemed to enjoy the ride amazingly, all the more that I, a _sacré Anglais_, trudged by his side in my boots, secured to the stirrup-leather by a cord. Fords on the river there were none near; thus, as we were marched off, we knew that all the courage of our comrades, and the skill and energy of Colonel Preston, could avail us nothing. Of all my party I was the most depressed; but big Hob Elliot was the most vituperative, and swore at our bad luck and at our captors, in terms which fortunately they did not understand. "The devil!" he muttered; "if they discover 'twas I who encountered their favourite Prince Xavier, and gave him that Lockerbie lick in front of the 51st, they will shoot me off hand like a hoodiecrow." "Unless we tell them, they can never know; and if they did, your fears are unnecessary, Hob. The French are too brave to resent what was done in fair fight." "Gude wot, I did all I could to spare the puir body. My father, who was a smith at Cannobie, in Liddesdale, used to say that 'mony a stout trooper has been lost for lack of a nail;' but, by the horns o' auld Clootie, here are ten of us and a cornet lost for lack of a little prudence." "Prudence--a nail--what the devil are you talking about, Hob?" said I, angrily.