n to obey me," explained the Captain. "I have been
desiring them to take open order for the last ten minutes, and they
remain as they were."

"What have they to say in their defence?" was the inquiry of the Man
in the Cloak.

"He won't let us write to the newspapers!" was heard from the ranks.

"Is this really so?" asked the new-comer, in a tone more of sorrow
than of anger.

"Well, Sir," returned the Captain, "as it is a rule of the Service
that no communications shall be sent to the Press, I thought that--"

"You had no right to think, Sir!" was the sharp reply. "Are you so
ignorant that you do not know that it is a birth-right of a true-born
Briton to air his opinions in the organs of publicity? You will allow
the men to go to their quarters at once, that they may state their
grievances on paper. They are at perfect liberty to write what they
please, and they may rest assured that their communications will
escape the grave of the waste-paper basket."

Thus encouraged, the Company dismissed without further word of
command.

"And who may you be?" asked the Captain, with some bitterness. "Are
you the Commander-in-Chief?"

"I am one infinitely more powerful," was the reply. And then the
speaker threw off his disguise-cloak, and appeared in morning-dress.
"Behold in me the Editor of an influential Journal!"

A week later the Captain had sent in his papers, and every man in the
Company he had once commanded wore the stripe of a Lance Corporal. And
thus was the power of the Press once again sufficiently vindicated.

* * * * *

THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS; OR, THE LISTS FOR THE LAURELS.

[Illustration]

PROEM.

_Tan-ta-ra-ra-ra-ra!_ The trumpets blare!
The rival Bards, wild-eyed, with windblown hair,
And close-hugged harps, advance with fire-winged feet
For the green Laureate Laurels to compete;
The laurels vacant from the brows of him
In whose fine light all lesser lustres dim.
Tourney of Troubadours! The laurels lie
On crimson velvet cushion couched on high,
Whilst _Punch_, Lord-Warden of his country's fame,
Attends the strains to hear, the victor-bard to name.

And first advances, as by right supreme,
With frosted locks adrift, and eyes a-dream,
With quick short footfalls, and an arm a-swing,
As to some cosmic rhythm heard to ring
From Putney to Parnassus, a brief bard.
(In stature, _not_ in song!) Though passion-scarred,
Porphyrogenitus