so he went upstairs with the toast.  When the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast, he felt himself a little revived, and sent down into the kitchen to let me know that he should be glad if I would step upstairs.  He did not offer to speak to me till I had walked up close to his bedside.  ’If you are Captain Shandy’s servant,’ said he, ’you must present my thanks to your master, with my little boy’s thanks along with them, for his courtesy to me:  if he was of Leven’s,’ said the Lieutenant,—­I told him your honour was.  ‘Then,’ said he, ’I served three campaigns with him in Flanders, and remember him; but ’tis most likely that he remembers nothing of me.  You will tell him, however, that the person his good nature has laid under obligations to him is one Le Fevre, a lieutenant in Angus’—­’but he knows me not,’ said he a second time, musing.  ‘Possibly he may know my story,’ added he.  ’Pray tell the Captain I was the ensign at Breda whose wife was most unfortunately killed with musket-shot as she lay in my arms in my tent’”

“I remember,” said my Uncle Toby, sighing, “the story of the ensign and his wife.  But finish the story thou art upon.”—­“’Tis finished already,” said the Corporal, “for I could stay no longer, so wished his honour good night; young Le Fevre rose from off the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the stairs, and, as we went down, he told me they had come from Ireland and were on their route to join the regiment in Flanders.  But, alas!” said the Corporal, “the lieutenant’s last day’s march is over.”

IX.—­The Story of Le Fevre (concluded)

“Thou hast left this matter short,” said my Uncle Toby to the Corporal, as he was putting him to bed, “and I will tell thee in what, Trim.  When thou offeredst Le Fevre whatever was in my house, thou shouldst have offered him my house, too.  A sick brother officer should have the best quarter’s, Trim, and if we had him with us, we could tend and look to him.  Thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim, and what with thy care of him, and the old woman’s, and his boy’s, and mine together, we might recruit him again at once and set him upon his legs.  In a fortnight or three weeks he might march.”

“He will never march, an’ please your honour, in this world,” said the Corporal.—­“He will march,” said my Uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the bed with one shoe off.  “An’ please your honour,” said the Corporal, “he will never march but to his grave.”—­“He shall march,” cried my Uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a shoe on, though without advancing an inch, “he shall march to his regiment.”  “He cannot stand it,” said the Corporal.—­“He shall be supported,” said my Uncle Toby.  “He’ll drop at last,” said the Corporal.—­“He shall not drop,” said my Uncle Toby, firmly.—­“Ah, well-a-day, do what we can for him,” said Trim, “the poor soul will die.”—­“He shall not die, by G——­,” cried my Uncle Toby.

The Accusing Spirit which flew up to Heaven’s chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in; and the Recording Angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever.