We were march’d down the road for a mile or more, till we heard a loud bawling, as of a man in much bodily pain, and soon came to a small village, where, under a tavern lamp, by the door, was a man perch’d up on a tub, and shouting forth portions of the Scripture to some twenty or more green-coats assembled round. Our conductor pushed past these, and enter’d the tavern. At a door to the left in the passage he halted, and knocking once, thrust us inside. The room was bare and lit very dimly by two tallow candles, set in bottles. Between these, on a deal table, lay a map outspread, and over it a man was bending, who look’d up sharply at our entrance. He was thin, with a blue nose, and wore a green uniform like the rest: only his carriage proved him a man of authority. This Captain Stubbs listened, you may be sure, with a bright’ning eye to the sergeant’s story; and at the close fix’d an inquisitive gaze on the pair of us, turning the King’s letter over and over in his hands. “How came this in your possession?” he ask’d at length. “That,” said I, “I must decline to tell.” He hesitated a moment; then, re-seating himself, broke the seal, spread the letter upon the map, and read it slowly through. For the first time I began heartily to hope that the paper contain’d nothing of moment. But the man’s face was no index of this. He read it through twice, folded it away in his breast, and turn’d to the sergeant— “To-morrow at six in the morning we continue our march. Meanwhile keep these fellows secure. I look to you for this.” The sergeant saluted and we were led out. That night we pass’d in handcuffs, huddled with fifty soldiers in a hayloft of the inn and hearkening to their curious talk, that was half composed of Holy Writ and half of gibes at our expense. They were beaten men and, like all such, found comfort in deriding the greater misfortunes of others. Before daylight the bugles began to sound, and we were led down to the green before the tavern door, where already were close upon five hundred gather’d, that had been billeted about the village and were now forming in order of march—a soil’d, batter’d crew, with torn ensigns and little heart in their movements. The sky began a cold drizzle as we set out, and through this saddening whether we trudged all day, Delia and I being kept well apart, she with the vanguard and I in the rear, seeing only the winding column, the dejected heads bobbing in front as they bent to the slanting rain, the cottagers that came out to stare as we pass’d; and hearing but the hoarse words of command, the low mutterings of the men, and always the monotonous _tramp-tramp_ through the slush and mire of the roads.