He had
scarce time to lower his burden upon the doorstep before the head of
the company swung into view around the street corner. With a gasp he
recognised them.
They were the Troy Gallants, and Major Hymen marched beside them.
But they came with no banners waving, without tuck of drum--a sadly
depleted corps, and by their countenances a sadly dejected one.
For the moment, however, in the revulsion of his feelings, the Vicar
failed to observe this. He ran forward with both arms extended to
greet the Major.
"My friend!" he cried tremulously. "You are alive!"
"Certainly," the Major answered. "Why not?" He was dishevelled,
unshaven, travel-stained, haggard, and at the same time flushed of
face. Also he appeared a trifle sulky.
"What has happened?"
"Well"--the Major turned on him almost viciously--"_you_ may call it
the Millennium!"
"But the French--?"
"Eh? Excuse me--I don't take your meaning. _What_ French?"
"I was given to understand--we have been taking certain precautions,"
stammered the Vicar, and gazed around, seeking Gunner Sobey (but
Gunner Sobey had dived into the hospital and was putting himself to
bed). "You don't tell me the alarm was false!"
"My good Vicar, I haven't a notion at what you're driving; and excuse
me again if in this hour of disgrace I find myself in no humour to
halt here and bandy explanations."
"Disgrace?"
"Disgrace," repeated the Major, gazing sternly back on his abashed
ranks.
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