"Thanks, Dundas! I don't require this tutor-like advice," said he, putting his foot in the stirrup of his roan-horse, with a dash of hauteur in his manner.
"At Fiumara, the French keep a sharp look out," I urged.
"Be it so," said he: "thither I go at all risks."
"You are not acting wisely."
"Granted—one never does so in love."
"Be cautious, Oliver! I would be loth to lose you; and I find it will be necessary to 'come the senior over you,' as the mess say, and order that no officer or soldier shall go beyond one mile from camp or quarters."
"Do so to-morrow," he added, laughing; "but, meanwhile, ere the order is issued, I shall ride so far as Fiumara to-night. What is the parole?"
"Maida—countersign Italy."
"Thank you: I do not wish to be fired on by the blundering Calabri," he replied; little imagining he would never require the watch-word. "Adieu! by midnight I will return."
Breaking away, he leaped on his horse, and dashing through the arched portal of the castle, rode down the hill through Scylla at a furious gallop.