Brereton stretched himself as if still weary, and felt certain
muscles, to test their various degrees of soreness, muttering
complaints as he did so. Throwing aside his jacket, waistcoat,
and shirt, he took his sword and pried out the crust of
ice on the water in the tin milk-pail which stood on the wash-stand.
Swashing the ice-cold water over his face and shoulders,
he groaned a curse or two as the chill sent a shiver
through him. But as he rubbed himself into a glow, he became
less discontented, and when resuming the flannel shirt,
he laughed. "Thank a kind God that it 's as cold to the
British as 't is to us, and there are more of them to suffer."
Another moment served to don his outer clothing and boots,
and to fit on his wig and sword. His toilet made, he went
downstairs, humming cheerily. He turned first to the kitchen
door, drawn thither by the smell that greeted his nostrils.

"Canst give a bestarved man a big breakfast and quickly?"
he asked the woman.

"Shure, Oi've all Oi can do now," was the surly response,
"wid the general an' his staff; an' his escort, an' thim as is
comin' an' goin', an'--"

Brereton came forward. "Ye 'd niver let an Oirishman go
hungry," he appealed, putting a brogue on his tongue.
"Arrah, me darlin', no maid wid such lips but has a kind
heart." The officer boldly put his hand under the woman's
chin and made as if he would kiss her. Then, as she eluded
the threatened blandishment, he continued, "Sure, and do ye
call yeself a woman, that ye starve a man all ways to wanst?"