The Golden Age. Kenneth Grahame

once galloped up and down these very lanes from their quarters in the village? Here, now, were soldiers unmistakable; and if their business was not fighting, what was it? Sniffing the joy of battle, we followed hard in their tracks.

      ‘Won’t Edward be sorry,’ puffed Harold, ‘that he’s begun that beastly Latin?’

      It did, indeed, seem hard. Edward, the most martial spirit of us all, was drearily conjugating amo (of all verbs!) between four walls, while Selina, who ever thrilled ecstatic to a red coat, was struggling with the uncouth German tongue. ‘Age,’ I reflected, ‘carries its penalties.’

      It was a grievous disappointment to us that the troop passed through the village unmolested. Every cottage, I pointed out to my companions, ought to have been loopholed, and strongly held. But no opposition was offered to the soldiers who, indeed, conducted themselves with a recklessness and a want of precaution that seemed simply criminal.

      At the last cottage a transitory gleam of common sense flickered across me, and, turning on Charlotte, I sternly ordered her back. The small maiden, docile but exceedingly dolorous, dragged reluctant feet homewards, heavy at heart that she was to behold no stout fellows slain that day; but Harold and I held steadily on, expecting every instant to see the environing hedges crackle and spit forth the leaden death.

      ‘Will they be Indians?’ asked my brother (meaning the enemy) ‘or Roundheads, or what?’

      I reflected. Harold always required direct straightforward answers—not faltering suppositions.

      ‘They won’t be Indians,’ I replied at last; ‘nor yet Roundheads. There haven’t been any Roundheads seen about here for a long time. They’ll be Frenchmen.’

      Harold’s face fell. ‘All right,’ he said: ‘Frenchmen’ll do; but I did hope they’d be Indians.’

      ‘If they were going to be Indians,’ I explained, ‘I—I don’t think I’d go on. Because when Indians take you prisoner they scalp you first, and then burn you at the stake. But Frenchmen don’t do that sort of thing.’

      ‘Are you quite sure?’ asked Harold doubtfully.

      ‘Quite,’ I replied. ‘Frenchmen only shut you up in a thing called the Bastille; and then you get a file sent in to you in a loaf of bread, and saw the bars through, and slide down a rope, and they all fire at you—but they don’t hit you—and you run down to the seashore as hard as you can, and swim off to a British frigate, and there you are!’

      Harold brightened up again. The programme was rather attractive. ‘If they try to take us prisoner,’ he said, ‘we—we won’t run, will we?’

      Meanwhile, the craven foe was a long time showing himself; and we were reaching strange outland country, uncivilised, wherein lions might be expected to prowl at nightfall. I had a stitch in my side, and both Harold’s stockings had come down. Just as I was beginning to have gloomy doubts of the proverbial courage of Frenchmen, the officer called out something, the men closed up, and, breaking into a trot, the troops—already far ahead—vanished out of our sight. With a sinking at the heart, I began to suspect we had been fooled.

      ‘Are they charging?’ cried Harold, very weary, but rallying gamely.

      ‘I think not,’ I replied doubtfully. ‘When there’s going to be a charge, the officer always makes a speech, and then they draw their swords and the trumpets blow, and——but let’s try a short cut. We may catch them up yet.’

      So we struck across the fields and into another road, and pounded down that, and then over more fields, panting, down-hearted, yet hoping for the best. The sun went in, and a thin drizzle began to fall; we were muddy, breathless, almost dead-beat; but we blundered on, till at last we struck a road more brutally, more callously unfamiliar than any road I ever looked upon. Not a hint nor a sign of friendly direction or assistance on the dogged white face of it! There was no longer any disguising it: we were hopelessly lost. The small rain continued steadily, the evening began to come on. Really there are moments when a fellow is justified in crying; and I would have cried too, if Harold had not been there. That right-minded child regarded an elder brother as a veritable god; and I could see that he felt himself as secure as if a whole Brigade of Guards had hedged him round with protecting bayonets. But I dreaded sore lest he should begin again with his questions.

      As I gazed in dumb appeal on the face of unresponsive nature, the sound of nearing wheels sent a pulse of hope through my being: increasing to rapture as I recognised in the approaching vehicle the familiar carriage of the old doctor. If ever a god emerged from a machine, it was when this heaven-sent friend, recognising us, stopped and jumped out with a cheery hail. Harold rushed up to him at once. ‘Have you been there?’ he cried. ‘Was it a jolly fight? who beat? were there many people killed?’

      The doctor appeared puzzled. I briefly explained the situation.

      ‘I see,’ said the doctor, looking grave and twisting his face this way and that. ‘Well, the fact is, there isn’t going to be any battle to-day. It’s been put off, on account of the change in the weather. You will have due notice of the renewal of hostilities. And now you’d better jump in and I’ll drive you home. You’ve been running a fine rig! Why, you might have both been taken and shot as spies!’

      This special danger had never even occurred to us. The thrill of it accentuated the cosy homelike feeling of the cushions we nestled into as we rolled homewards. The doctor beguiled the journey with blood-curdling narratives of personal adventure in the tented field, he having followed the profession of arms (so it seemed) in every quarter of the globe. Time, the destroyer of all things beautiful, subsequently revealed the baselessness of these legends; but what of that? There are higher things than truth; and we were almost reconciled, by the time we were put down at our gate, to the fact that the battle had been postponed.