NIGHT closed around
the field of Agincourt.
Sir Hildebrand
Hellytisplit,
who had been
watching its approach
for an hour,
from a neighboring
hill, with a spy-glass,
turned his
horse's head towards
his quarters,
with a sad heart;
for the day had been destructive to horse-flesh, and
thousands of the French and Norman chivalry bit the
mud (not dust) of Agincourt. He sought his tent. His
brow was dark and gloomy, as could be plainly seen
through his iron helmet; and an unevenness of gait, as
he strode along, betrayed great agitation of the nervous
system.

“Walter de Coursey Stubbs,” said he, hoarsely, to his
squire in attendance, “hang up my horse, and give my

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casque some oats and water. And, hark ye! disturb me
not until the Connecticut wooden horologe in the vestibule
striketh the hour of seving. Now, away.”

Sir Hildebrand Hellytisplit slowly divested himself of
his armor, which clanged upon the stillness of the night
like a tin kitchen, and then taking a match from his vest
pocket, he lighted a three-cent regalia, and puffed away
at it in moody silence. He stretched himself upon
three chairs, with a bundle of old newspapers under his
head, and dropped asleep, and then caught a nap. But
his sleep was troubled. Anon he started, and shouted,
“St. Dennis for France! give 'em fits!” Again a
clammy sweat covered his brow, and he muttered, “Ha!
thrice to-day hath the brazen nose gleamed upon me in
the battle-field. Down, old copper-head, down!”

But soon his slumbers grew calm, and not a sound
disturbed the silence, save the man-at-arms, who sat
whetting his jackknife on a brick in the entry, and indulging
in whistling some old familiar psalm-tunes, as if
his mind were elsewhere; for that man-at-arms had a
heart, he had.