A considerable portion of the allied army were quartered in the barracks and forts of Liege, in large convents requisitioned for the purpose, and in outlying villages.  The 5th dragoons had assigned to them a convent some two miles from the town.  The monks had moved out, and gone to an establishment of the same order in the town, and the soldiers were therefore left to make the best they could of their quarters.  There was plenty of room for the men, but for the horses there was some difficulty.  The cloisters were very large, and these were transformed into stables, and boards were fastened up on the open faces to keep out the cold; others were stalled in sheds and outbuildings; and the great refectory, or dining hall, was also strewn thick with straw, and filled with four rows of horses.

In the afternoon the officers generally rode or walked down into the town.  One day, Rupert Holliday with Pat Dillon had met their friends Lord Fairholm and Sir John Loveday, whose regiment was quartered in the town, at the principal wine shop, a large establishment, which was the great gathering place of the officers of the garrison.  There an immense variety of bright uniforms were to be seen; English, German, and Dutch, horse, foot, and artillery; while the serving men hurried about through the throng with trays piled with beer mugs, or with wine and glasses.

“Who is that officer,” Dillon asked, “in the Hessian cavalry uniform?  Methinks he eyes you with no friendly look.”

Rupert and his friends glanced at the officer pointed out.

“It is that fellow Fulke,” Sir John said.  “I heard he had managed to obtain a commission in the army of the Landgrave of Hesse.  You must keep a smart lookout, Master Rupert, for his presence bodes you no good.  He is in fitting company; that big German officer next to him is the Graff Muller, a turbulent swashbuckler, but a famous swordsman—­a fellow who would as soon run you through as look at you, and who is a disgrace to the Margrave’s army, in which I wonder much that he is allowed to stay.”

“Who is the fellow you are speaking of?” Dillon asked.

“A gentleman with whom our friend Rupert had a difference of opinion,” Sir John Loveday laughed.  “There is a blood feud between them.  Seriously, the fellow has a grudge against our friend, and as he is the sort of man to gratify himself without caring much as to the means he uses, I should advise Master Holliday not to trust himself out alone after dark.  There are plenty of ruined men in these German regiments who would willingly cut a throat for a guinea, especially if offered them by one of their own officers.”

“The scoundrel is trying to get Muller to take up his quarrel, or I am mistaken,” Lord Fairholm, who had been watching the pair closely, said.  “They are glancing this way, and Fulke has been talking earnestly.  But ruffian as he is, Muller is of opinion that for a notorious swordsman like him to pick a quarrel with a lad like our friend would be too rank, and would, if he killed him, look so much like murder that even he dare not face it; he has shaken his head very positively.”