all the backbone of England) checked him on the verge
of a severe retort. As it was, he answered with fine suavity.

"There is no true patriot, Sir Felix, but desires an accelerated
increase in our population just now, whether male or female. I trust
your good lady's zeal may be rewarded by a speedy recovery."

Sir Felix fairly capered. "Accelerated! Acc--" he began, and,
choking over the word, turned and caught sight of the Dragoons as
they emerged from the woods, the sunlight flashing on their
cuirasses.

He fell back against the pedestal of a leaden effigy of Julius Caesar
and plucked his dressing-gown about him with fumbling bewildered
hands. Was the whole British Army pouring into his peaceful park?
What had he done to bring down on his head the sportive mockery of
heaven, and at such a moment?

But in the act of collapsing he looked across the balustrade and saw
the Major's face suddenly lose its colour. Then in an instant he
understood and pulled himself together.

"Hey? A hunt breakfast, is it?" he inquired sardonically, and turned
to welcome the approaching troop. "Good morning, gentlemen! You
have come to draw my covers? Then let me suggest your beginning with
the plantation yonder to the right, where I can promise you good
sport."

It was unneighbourly; an action remembered against Sir Felix to the
close of his life, as it deserved to be. He himself admitted later
that he had given way to momentary choler, and made what amends he
could by largess to the victims and their families. But it was long
before he recovered his place in our esteem. Indeed, he never wholly
recovered it: since of many dire consequences there was one,
unforeseen at the time, which proved to be irreparable. Over the
immediate consequences let me drop the curtain. _Male, male feriati
Troes!_ . . . As a man at daybreak takes a bag and, going into the
woods, gathers mushrooms, so the Dragoons gathered the men of Troy.
. . . Mercifully the most of them were unconscious.

Even less heart have I to dwell on the return of the merrymakers:

"But now, ye shepherd lasses, who shall lead
Your wandering troops, or sing your virelays?"

Sure no forlorner procession ever passed down Troy river than this,
awhile so jocund, mute now, irresponsive to the morning's smile, the
cuckoo's blithe challenge from the cliff. To the Major, seated in
the stern sheets of the leading boat, no one dared to speak.
They supposed his