He captured two of the enemy's field-pieces, and was 'Captain Beamish' on the day after." "Long life to him," said at least a dozen voices behind and about me, while a general clinking of decanters and smacking of lips betokened that Phil's health with all the honours was being celebrated.

For myself, I was really so engrossed by my narrative, and so excited by the "ponche," that I saw or heard very little of what was passing around, and have only a kind of dim recollection of being seized by the hand by "Feargus," who was Beamish's brother, and who, in the fullness of his heart, would have hugged me to his breast, if I had not opportunely been so overpowered as to fall senseless under the table.
When I first returned to consciousness, I found myself lying exactly where I had fallen.

Around me lay heaps of slain--the two of "ours" amongst the number.

One of them--I remember he was the adjutant--held in his hand a wax candle (three to the pound).

Whether he had himself seized it in the enthusiasm of my narrative of flood and field, or it had been put there by another, I know not, but he certainly cut a droll figure.