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The next thing was to billet the warriors. The captain of the troop, by this, was pesky cross-tempered, and flounced off to the “Jolly Pilchards” in a huff. “Sergeant,” says he, “here’s an inn, though a damned bad ‘un, an’ here I means to stop. Somewheres about there’s a farm called Constantine, where I’m told the men can be accommodated. Find out the place, if you can, an’ do your best: an’ don’t let me see yer face till to-morra,” says he.

So Sergeant Basket–that was his name–gave the salute, and rode his troop up the street, where–for his manners were mighty winning, notwithstanding the dirty nature of his errand–he soon found plenty to direct him to Farmer Noy’s, of Constantine; and up the coombe they rode into the darkness, a dozen or more going along with them to show the way, being won by their martial bearing as well as the sergeant’s very friendly way of speech.

Farmer Noy was in bed–a pock-marked, lantern-jawed old gaffer of sixty-five; and the most remarkable point about him was the wife he had married two years before–a young slip of a girl but just husband-high. Money did it, I reckon; but if so, ’twas a bad bargain for her. He was noted for stinginess to such a degree that they said his wife wore a brass wedding-ring, weekdays, to save the genuine article from wearing out. She was a Ruan woman, too, and therefore ought to have known all about him. But woman’s ways be past finding out.

Hearing the hoofs in his yard and the sergeant’s stram-a-ram upon the door, down comes the old curmudgeon with a candle held high above his head.

“What the devil’s here?” he calls out. Sergeant Basket looks over the old man’s shoulder; and there, halfway up the stairs, stood Madam Noy in her night rail–a high-coloured ripe girl, languishing for love, her red lips parted and neck all lily-white against a loosened pile of dark-brown hair.

“Be cussed if I turn back!” said the sergeant to himself; and added out loud–

“Forty souldjers, in the King’s name!”

“Forty devils!” says old Noy.

“They’re devils to eat,” answered the sergeant, in the most friendly manner; “an’, begad, ye must feed an’ bed ’em this night–or else I’ll search your cellars. Ye are a loyal man–eh, farmer? An’ your cellars are big, I’m told.”

“Sarah,” calls out the old man, following the sergeant’s bold glance, “go back an’ dress yersel’ dacently this instant! These here honest souldjers–forty damned honest gormandisin’ souldjers–be come in his Majesty’s name, forty strong, to protect honest folks’ rights in the intervals of eatin’ ’em out o’ house an’ home. Sergeant, ye be very welcome i’ the King’s name. Cheese an’ cider ye shall have, an’ I pray the mixture may turn your forty stomachs.”

In a dozen minutes he had fetched out his stable-boys and farm-hands, and, lantern in hand, was helping the sergeant to picket the horses and stow the men about on clean straw in the outhouses. They were turning back to the house, and the old man was turning over in his mind that the sergeant hadn’t yet said a word about where he was to sleep, when by the door they found Madam Noy waiting, in her wedding gown, and with her hair freshly braided.

Now, the farmer was mortally afraid of the sergeant, knowing he had thirty ankers and more of contraband liquor in his cellars, and minding the sergeant’s threat. None the less his jealousy got the upper hand.

“Woman,” he cries out, “to thy bed!”

“I was waiting,” said she, “to say the Cap’n’s bed–“

“Sergeant’s,” says the dragoon, correcting her.

“–Was laid i’ the spare room.”

“Madam,” replies Sergeant Basket, looking into her eyes and bowing, “a soldier with my responsibility sleeps but little. In the first place, I must see that my men sup.”

“The maids be now cuttin’ the bread an’ cheese and drawin’ the cider.”