remuneration he is to receive
for his service, and from what funds it is to be paid. And truly,
my lord, from what I can see and hear, the Convention are the
purse-masters. The Highlanders, indeed, may be kept in humour, by
allowing them to steal cattle; and for the Irishes, your lordship and
your noble associates may, according to the practice of the wars in
such cases, pay them as seldom or as little as may suit your pleasure or
convenience; but the same mode of treatment doth not apply to a cavalier
like me, who must keep up his horses, servants, arms, and equipage, and
who neither can, nor will, go to warfare upon his own charges."

Anderson, the domestic who had before spoken now respectfully addressed
his master.--"I think, my lord," he said, "that, under your lordship's
favour, I could say something to remove Captain Dalgetty's second
objection also. He asks us where we are to collect our pay; now, in my
poor mind, the resources are as open to us as to the Covenanters. They
tax the country according to their pleasure, and dilapidate the estates
of the King's friends; now, were we once in the Lowlands, with our
Highlanders and our Irish at our backs, and our swords in our hands,
we can find many a fat traitor, whose ill-gotten wealth shall fill our
military chest and satisfy our soldiery. Besides, confiscations will
fall in thick; and, in giving donations of forfeited lands to every
adventurous cavalier who joins his standard, the King will at once
reward his friends and punish his enemies. In short, he that joins these
Roundhead dogs may get some miserable pittance of pay--he that joins our
standard has a chance to be knight, lord, or earl, if luck serve him."

"Have you ever served, my good friend?" said the Captain to the
spokesman.

"A little, sir, in these our domestic quarrels," answered the man,
modestly.

"But never in Germany or the Low Countries?" said Dalgetty.

"I never had the honour," answered Anderson.

"I profess," said Dalgetty, addressing Lord Menteith

William Babington Maxwell (18661938) was a British novelist. He was a son of novelist Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Though nearly 50 years old at the outbreak of the First World War, he was accepted as a lieutenant in the Royal Fusiliers and served in France until 1917.

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