“Come, O’Malley, are you ready for the road?”
My horse was by this time standing saddled at the front. I sprang at once to the saddle, and without waiting for a second order, set out for Lisbon. Ten minutes had scarce elapsed,—the very shouts of joy of the delighted city were still ringing in my ears,—when I was once again back at the villa. As I mounted the steps into the hall, a carriage drew up,—it was Sir George Dashwood’s. He came forward, his daughter leaning upon his arm.
“Why, O’Malley, I thought you had gone.”
“I have returned, Sir George. Colonel Brotherton is in waiting, and the staff also. I have received orders to set out for Benejos, where the 14th are stationed, and have merely delayed to say adieu.”
“Adieu, my dear boy, and God bless you!” said the warm-hearted old man, as he pressed my hand between both his. “Lucy, here’s your old friend about to leave; come and say good-by.”
Miss Dashwood had stopped behind to adjust her shawl. I flew to her assistance. “Adieu, Miss Dashwood, and forever!” said I, in a broken voice, as I took her hand in mine. “This is not your domino,” said I, eagerly, as a blue silk one peeped from beneath her mantle; “and the sleeve, too,—did you wear this?” She blushed slightly, and assented.
“I changed with the senhora, who wore mine all the evening.”
“And Power, then, was not your partner?”
“I should think not,—for I never danced.”
“Lucy, my love, are you ready? Come, be quick.”