And presently a dreadful thing befell us.

For one morning before sunrise, as I stood scouring the milk-pans by the flare of a tallow-dip, came to me a yawning sergeant of this same regiment to tell me that, as my foster father was to be shot at sunrise, therefore, he desired to see me.

And I remember how he yawned and yawned, this lank and bony sergeant, showing within his mouth his yellow fangs! "Oh, Euan! When I arrived, my foster father--who I then supposed was my own father--lay in a tent a condemned deserter, seeming not even to care, or to comprehend his dreadful plight.

All the defence he ever made, they say was that he had tired of dirty camps and foolish drums, and wished to paint again.

Euan, it was terrible.