“Maybe so, sir,” said Lance, a dull red showing under the tan and sunburn of more than fifty years. “My Lord Fairfax made more of it than ’twas worth. So, when he had left the army, and I thought he had forgot me, he wrote and asked if I would come to America with him, and I came. Often, in the winter-time, the earl does not see a white face for months except mine, and then he forgets that we are master and man, and only remembers that he is my old commander and I am an old soldier. The earl was a young cornet in 1710-12, and was with the armies in the Low Countries, where we had given Marshal Villars a trouncing, and he gave Prince Eugene a trouncing back, in exchange. So, sometimes, of the long winter nights, the earl sends for me and reads to me out of books about that last campaign of the Duke of Marlborough’s, and says to me, ‘Lance, how was this?’ And, ‘Lance, do you recollect that?’ Being only a soldier, I never did know what we were marching and countermarching for, nor so much as what we were fighting for: but when the earl asks me what we were doing when we marched from Lens to Aire, or from Arleux to Bachuel, I can tell him all about the march--whether ’twas in fine or rainy weather, and how we got across the rivers, and what rations we had; we often did not have any, and the mounseers were not much better off. But, Mr. Washington, a Frenchman’s stomach is not like an Englishman’s. They can sup on soup maigre and lentils after a hard day’s march, and then get up and shake a leg while another fellow fiddles. But an Englishman has to have his beef, sir, and bacon and greens, and a good thick porridge with beans in it. I think all the nourishment the Frenchmen get goes into their legs, for they will march day and night for their Grand Monarque, as they call him, and are always ready to fight.”