And as they shouted "_Vive le Canada_" we echoed with a will, "_Vive la France_." We sang, too, "God Save the King," and "_La Marseillaise_." A few who knew English joined in the first, but "_La Marseillaise_" starting by courtesy with us, swelled in a moment into a mighty anthem which swept the city like a storm. Later, when we followed with "The Maple Leaf," a respectful silence fell upon the throng. With quick intuition they knew it was a song of home, with which they sympathised, but which they could not understand. And as the melody concluded we could hear them whispering one to another: "_Quelle est cette chanson?_" And we answered in our broken French, "It is a song of our native land, far, far from here." It was my good fortune during this strange march to ride upon the side close to the curb, while Reggy, in comparative obscurity, rode opposite. Frequently, too, it was my privilege to return the greetings of the dainty French girls who lined the walk and waved their handkerchiefs high above the heads of the crowd in the road. At last Reggy, trotting along in the shadow, could contain himself no longer. He burst out: "Hang it all, major! Just my bally luck again; you’re always closer to the girls than I." "But not closer to their hearts, Reggy dear," I interjected soothingly. "Small consolation, that, in the present situation," Reggy was grumbling, when he was suddenly interrupted by a pretty black-eyed girl who, running alongside his horse, caught him by the hand and forthwith begged a kiss. I believe—or, rather, I hope—Reggy blushed. I should always like to think that at that precise moment Reggy’s sense of modesty came to his rescue. If it did, however, it vanished again with alarming rapidity. "Here’s an embarrassing situation," he cried dolefully. "Very trying, indeed, to have a pretty girl demand a kiss," I laughed. "Confound it!" he returned. "That’s not the trouble; but I’m not horseman enough to lean over and get it." There, you see, Reggy in one fell moment had destroyed all my illusions about him. Here was I worrying over his distress and presumed embarrassment, while he, hopeless young scamp that he was, showed actual regret because he couldn’t fall from grace. "I would suggest that you dismount," I answered, in a spirit of sarcasm. For a moment I believe this insane thought obsessed him, and then his latent sense of military discipline and dignity saved him. He turned regretfully to the young lady, and pressing her hand warmly—very warmly, I thought—broke forth in schoolboy French: "_Merci, cherie! Mille fois, mille fois_. Another time will have to do." "_Est-ce-que vous parlez Français, monsieur?_" she demanded sweetly. "Rather rough on your French, Reggy," I teased, "asking you, after that brilliant sortie, if you really speak the language." Reggy appeared hurt.