The officers pronounced him an incurably audacious "pratique"; he was always in mischief, and the regimental rules he broke through like a terrier through a gauze net; but they knew that when once the trumpets sounded Boot and Saddle, this yellow-haired dare-devil of an English fellow would be worth a score of more orderly soldiers, and that, wherever his adopted flag was carried, there would he be, first and foremost, in everything save retreat.

The English service had failed to turn Rake to account; the French service made no such mistake, but knew that though this British bulldog might set his teeth at the leash and the lash, he would hold on like grim death in a fight, and live game to the last, if well handled.
Apart, at the head of the barracks, sat Cecil.

The banter, the songs, the laughter, the chorus of tongues, went on unslackened by his presence.

He had cordial sympathies with the soldiers--with those men who had been his followers in adversity and danger; and in whom he had found, despite all their occasional ferocity and habitual recklessness, traits and touches of the noblest instincts of humanity.

His heart was with them always, as his purse, and his wine, and his bread were alike shared ever among them.