re, mon lieutenant, that I may write it in my
note-book.'

'What! hast thou a note-book?' cried an old staff-officer, who was
preparing to mount his horse; 'let's see it, lad.'

With a burning cheek and trembling hand I drew my little journal from
the breast of my jacket, and gave it to him.

'_Sacrebleu!_' exclaimed he, in a burst of laughter, 'what have we
here? Why, this is a portrait of old General Moricier, and although a
caricature, a perfect likeness. And here comes a plan for manoeuvring a
squadron by threes from the left. This is better--it is a receipt for
an "Omelette a la Hussard"; and here we have a love-song, and a
moustache-paste, with some hints about devotion, and diseased frog
in horses. Most versatile genius, certainly!' And so he went on,
occasionally laughing at my rude sketches and ruder remarks, till he
came to a page headed 'Equitation, as practised by Officers of the
Staff,' and followed by a series of caricatures of bad riding, in all
its moods and tenses. The flush of anger which instantly coloured
his face soon attracted the notice of those about him, and one of the
bystanders quickly snatched the book from his fingers, and, in the midst
of a group all convulsed with laughter, proceeded to expatiate upon
my illustrations. To be sure, they were absurd enough. Some were
represented sketching on horseback, under shelter of an umbrella;
others were 'taking the depth of a stream' by a 'header' from their own
saddles; some again were 'exploring ground for an attack in line,' by a
measurement of the rider's own length over the head of his horse.
Then there were ridiculous situations, such as 'sitting down before a
fortress,' 'taking an angle of incidence,' and so on. Sorry jests all of
them, but sufficient to amuse those with whose daily associations they
chimed in, and to whom certain traits of portraiture gave all the zest
of a personality.

My shame at the exposure, and my terror for its consequences,
gradually yielded to a feeling of flattered vanity at the success of
my lucubrations; and I never remarked that the staff-officer had ridden
away from the group till I saw him galloping back at the top of his
speed.

'Is your name Tiernay, my good fellow?' cried he, riding close up to my
side, and with an expression on his features I did not half like.

'Yes, sir,' replied I.

'Hussar of the Ninth, I believe?' repeated he, reading from a paper in
his hand.

'The same, sir.'

'Well, your