Here broke in the shrill-tongued fifes:—
We shouldered arms,
We marched—we marched away
From Phœnix Park
We marched to Dublin Bay.
The drums and the fifes,
Oh, sweetly they did play,
As we marched—marched—marched—with the Mulligan Guards.
It was the band of the Mavericks playing the regiment into its camp; for the men were route-marching with their baggage. The rippling column swung into the plain—carts behind it—broke into pieces, was divided left and right, ran about like an ant-hill, and
'But this is sorcery!' said the lama.
The plain dotted itself with tents that seemed to rise, all spread, from the carts. Another rush of men invaded the grove, pitched a huge tent in silence, ran up yet eight or nine more by the side of it, unearthed cooking-pots, pans, and bundles, which were taken possession of by a crowd of native servants; and behold the mango-tope turned into an orderly town as they watched!
'Let us go,' said the lama, sinking back afraid, as the fires twinkled and white officers with jingling swords stalked into the mess-tent.
'Stand back in the shadow. No one can see beyond the light of a fire,' said Kim, his eyes still on the flag. He had never before watched the routine of a seasoned regiment pitching camp in thirty minutes.
'Look! look! look!' clucked the lama. 'Yonder comes a priest.'
It was Bennett, the Church of England chaplain of the regiment, limping in dusty black. One of his flock had made some rude re-
