No soldier worth his salt ever endured the long idleness of winter quarters patiently, and Harry Rochester was not an exception to the rule. As the weary months passed slowly by, he grew tired of the endless drilling and exercising, varied by marching and sham fights. He was very popular with his captain, Willem van der Werff, and the other officers of the regiment, but found himself unable to take much interest in their amusements. Beer-drinking was not to his taste; the Dutch comedies performed at the theatres were dull, and the paternal government prohibited the performance of lighter French pieces. As the winter drew on he had opportunities of skating, and became so proficient as to win a prize at a regimental match; but the frost was not of long duration. He was not a fellow to allow time to hang on his hands. He practised broadsword and sabre with Sherebiah, read a great deal of Dutch, studied all the military histories on which he could lay hands, and spent many an hour poring over maps until he had the geography of all central Europe at his finger-ends. No great news came from the outside world. In November the Netherlands suffered in some degree from the fierce storm that swept through the Channel, strewing the English shores with wrecks, ripping off trees at the roots, blowing down churches and houses. In the same month also the Archduke Charles passed through Holland _en route_ for England and Spain, to assume in the latter country the sovereignty which was the bone of contention between his father the Emperor and King Louis of France. Almost the only relaxations in Harry’s life were his visits to Madame de Vaudrey’s house, where both he and Fanshawe were always welcome guests. They formed with Mynheer Grootz a little house-party there during the New Year week. It happened that on the last day of the year 1703 Sherebiah received a letter from his father: a rare event. One piece of news it contained was much discussed at Madame de Vaudrey’s table. "And now I must tell you," wrote old Minshull, "as Squire hev had a Visiter for a matter of munths. ’Tis a tall blacke Frenchman by his looks and Spache, a tarrible fine gentleman, with a Smile & a twitching Mouthe. Squire & he be alwaies together, moste particler Frendes it do seeme. None of us soules can’t abide him, nor the Qualitie neither. For myself, I don’t like his Lookes, not me, & ’tis luckie he can’t understand English, for being a Man to speake my Minde I say things nowe and again as would turne his blacke Hair white." Harry had already mentioned having seen Polignac drive away from Breda in company with the squire. "The odious man!" cried Madame de Vaudrey, when Harry translated the gaffer’s letter. "I only wonder that the other man, that insolent captain, is not with them. I wonder where he is?" "I don’t know," said Harry, who had kept his own counsel regarding the last he had seen of Aglionby.