CHAPTER XXX.
THE TROOP-SHIP.
Among the letters and papers which reached our detachment at Gibraltar, was a copy of the 'Morning Post,' which went 'the round' of the officers—i.e.—was perused by all in turn.
We were all seated jovially at the table, in the harbour of Gibraltar; the bright sun was glistening on the waves which ran in long and glassy ripples through the straits; the cabin-windows were open; the cloth had been removed, and the decanters of sherry and full-bodied old port were travelling round the well-polished mahogany on their patent silver waggons. We were idling over nuts and peaches, talking, laughing and making merry on the prospects of the war, when, judge of my emotions, on Major Catanagh, who had entrenched himself behind the open pages of the 'Morning Post,' suddenly raising his head and his voice together—
'Poor Tom Clavering!' he exclaimed; 'he has come to an untimely end at last.'
'How?' asked several, pausing in their conversation; 'Clavering of the Guards—who dined with us at Dumbarton?'
'Brother of Bob Clavering of the 5th? Well?'
'He has come to an untimely end,' continued the major, and my heart felt a pang as the captain's frank and handsome face came before me; but I could neither analyse the major's expression of eye, or my own emotions, as he added,—
'He has gone the way we must all go.'
'Dead!' I exclaimed, as hope mingled with my regret.