"What is it--oh, what is it?" said Little Mildred. Then, as a mother
might speak to a child, "That is a horse--yes, a horse."
Very slowly came the answer, in a thick, passionless guttural: "Yes,
I--have seen. But--where is _the_ horse?"
You could have heard the hearts of the mess beating as the men drew
back to give the stranger full room in his wanderings. There was no
question of calling the guard.
Again he spoke, very slowly, "Where is _our_ horse?"
There is no saying what happened after that. There is but one horse in
the White Hussars, and his portrait hangs outside the door of the mess
room. He is the piebald drum-horse the king of the regimental band,
that served the regiment for seven-and-thirty years, and in the end
was shot for old age. Half the mess tore the thing down from its place
and thrust it into the man's hands. He placed it above the
mantelpiece; it clattered on the ledge, as his poor hands dropped it,
and he staggered toward the bottom of the table, falling into
Mildred's chair. The band began to play the "River of Years" waltz,
and the laughter from the gardens came into the tobacco-scented mess
room. But nobody, even the youngest, was thinking of waltzes. They all
spoke to one another something after this fashion: "The drum-horse
hasn't hung over the mantelpiece since '67." "How does he know?"
"Mildred, go and speak to him again.
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