"Young Morley, of the 20th, has sent in his name," said Gascoigne; who at that moment approached, with a number of notes in his hand. "The little fool!" muttered the general; "poor boy—he has seen little enough of life yet to be in such a hurry to quit it. Does he lead the stormers?"
"No—Dundas, of ours," replied Gascoigne, who was a 62nd man. "So you mean to lead 'the lost children' to-night," he added to me.
"No, faith! a company is not got every day, and——"
"Your name is on my list as a volunteer, though!"
"The deuce it is!" I exclaimed, gravely; "I never sent it to you."
"Amazing!" said he, handing me a note, written in a hand and signed with a signature so like my own—having every blot, turn, and dash—that I was confounded and nonplussed.
"I never penned this note, gentlemen! Never! I pledge my honour: it is a forgery, to lead me into unnecessary danger."
"Singular!" said the brigade-major, puzzled.
"'T is the roguery of Navarro," whispered Marco: "I will wager a hundred crowns to a carlino, this is a piece of his revenge."
"Dundas, there is no time for inquiry or exposure just now," said Colonel Oswald. "What do you propose—to withdraw your name?"