rrupted, alert
as ever to protect the credit of his Company. He was aware that
several of the Die-hards, in extra-military hours, took an occasional
trip across to Guernsey: and Guernsey is a good deal more than
half-way to France.

"The point is," observed the Doctor, "that you play the cornet."

"It is certain that I do so, monsieur; but how that can be the
point--"

"And instruct in music?"

"Decidedly!"

"Do you know the Dead March?"

M. Trinquier was unfeignedly bewildered.

Said Captain Pond: "Listen while I explain. You are my prisoner,
and it becomes my duty to send you back to Dartmoor under escort.
But you are exhausted; and notwithstanding my detestation of that
infernal tyrant, your master, I am a humane man. At all events, I'm
not going to expose two of my Die-hards to the risks of a tramp to
Dartmoor just now--I wouldn't turn out a dog in such weather.
It remains a question what I am to do with you in the meanwhile.
I propose that you give me your parole that you will make no attempt
to escape, let us say, for a month: and on receiving it I will at
once escort you to my house, and see that you are suitably clothed,
fed, and entertained."

"I give it willingly, M. le Capitaine. But how am I to thank you?"

"By playing the Dead March upon the _cornet-a-piston_ and teaching
others to do the like."

"That seems a singular way of showing one's gratitude. But why the
Dead March, monsieur? And, excuse me, there is more than one Dead
March. I myself, _par exemple_, composed one to the memory of my
adored Philomene but a week before Hippolyte came with his so sad
proposition."

"I doubt if that will do. You see," said Captain Pond, lifting his
voice for the benefit of the Die-hards, who by this time were quite
as sorely puzzled as their prisoner, "we are about to bury one of our
Company, Sergeant Fugler--"

"Ah! he is dead?"

"He is dying," Captain Pond pursued, the more quickly since he now
guessed, not without reason, that Fugler was the "good Cornishman" to
whose door M. Trinquier had been directed. "He is dying of a
hobnailed liver. It is his wish to have the Dead March played at his
burying."

"He whistled the tune over to me," said the Doctor; "but plague take
me if I can whistle it to you. I've no ear: but I'd know it again if
I heard it. Dismal isn't the word for it."

"It will be Handel. I am sure it will be Handel--the Dead March in
his _Saul_."

"In his what?"

"In