"Beg pardon, sir—Miss Bethune?" said Hobson, enquiringly; for he evidently thought these lines were of the old gentleman’s own composition. And then, as he received no answer, for Mr. Bethune had turned to his pipe, he resumed, "Ah, I see, sir, I ’ave not been successful. Too ambitious—too ambitious. It was you yourself, sir, as advised me to write about what I knew; and—and in fact, sir, what I see is that there is nothing like patriotism. Lor, sir, you should see them young fellers at the Oxbridge—they’re as brave as lions—especially when they’ve ’ad a glass. Talk about the French! The French ain’t in it, when we’ve got our spirit up. We can stand a lot, sir, yes, we can; but don’t let them push us too far. Not _too_ far. It will be a bad day for them when they do. An Englishman ain’t given to boasting; but he’s a terror when his back’s up—and a Scotchman too, sir, I beg your pardon—I did not mean anything—I intended to include the Scotchman too, I assure you, sir. There’s a little thing here, sir," he continued modestly, "that I should like to read to you, if I may make so bold. I thought of sending it to Mr. Coldstream—I’m sure it would take—for there’s some fight in the Englishman yet—and in the Scotchman too, sir," he instantly added. "A patriotic poem?—Well?" Thus encouraged the pleased poet moistened his lips with the whiskey and water he had brought for himself and began— "_Where’s the man would turn and fly?_ _Where’s the man afraid to die?_ _It isn’t you, it isn’t I._ _No, my lads, no, no!_" Then his voice had a more valiant ring in it still: "_Who will lead us to the fray?_ _Who will sweep the foe away?_ _Who will win the glorious day?_ _Of England’s chivalry?_" It is true he said, "Oo will sweep the foe awye?" but these little peculiarities were lost in the fervour of his enthusiasm. "_Roberts—Graham—Buller—Wood—_" He paused after each name as if listening for the thunderous cheering of the imaginary audience. "And many another ’most as good: They’re the men to shed their blood For their country!" Then there was a touch of pathos: "_Fare thee well, love, and adieu!_" But that was immediately dismissed: "_Fiercer thoughts I have than you;_ _We will drive the dastard crew_ _Into slavery!_" And then he stretched forth his right arm, and declaimed in loud and portentous tones— "_See the bloody tented-field;_ _Look the foe—they yield!—they yield!_ _Hurrah! hurrah! our glory’s sealed!_ _Three cheers for victory!_" Suddenly his face blanched. For at this moment the door opened: a tall woman appeared—with astonishment and indignation only too legible in her angular features.