“Confound you, you’ve pulled me short, and I was about becoming downright pastoral. Apropos of kissing, I understand Sir Arthur won’t allow the convents to be occupied by troops.”
“And apropos of convents,” said I, “let’s hear your story; you promised it a while ago.”
“My dear Charley, it’s far too early in the evening for a story. I should rather indulge my poetic fancies here, under the shade of melancholy boughs; and besides, I am not half screwed up yet.”
“Come, Adjutant, let’s have a song.”
“I’ll sing you a Portuguese serenade when the next bottle comes in. What capital port! Have you much of it?”
“Only three dozen. We got it late last night; forged an order from the commanding officer and sent it up to old Monsoon,—‘for hospital use.’ He gave it with a tear in his eye, saying, as the sergeant marched away, ‘Only think of such wine for fellows that may be in the next world before morning! It’s a downright sin!’”
“I say, Power, there’s something going on there.”
At this instant the trumpet sounded “boot and saddle,” and like one man the whole mass rose up, when the scene, late so tranquil, became one of excited bustle and confusion. An aide-de-camp galloped past towards the river, followed by two orderly sergeants; and the next moment Sparks rode up, his whole equipment giving evidence of a hurried ride, while his cheek was deadly pale and haggard.
Power presented to him a goblet of sherry, which, having emptied at a draught, he drew a long breath, and said, “They are coming,—coming in force!”
“Who are coming?” said Power. “Take time, man, and collect yourself.”