Give me the bread, Fergus--that's right.
"Now, gentlemen, here's a hunk each.

Plates are a luxury which we must do without, in the field.

Now let us fall to." Walter seated himself on a truss of straw beside his father, and thought he had never enjoyed a meal so much, in his life, as the bread and cold chicken, eaten as they were in the open air in front of the crackling fire.

Each was provided with a horn, and these were filled from the keg.
"Here's to the king, gentlemen.

Success to his arms!" All stood up to drink the toast, and then continued their meal.