When I awoke in the morning, Studhome had mounted and ridden off to the harbour.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
The tattoo beats, the lights are gone,
The camp around in slumber lies;
The night with solemn pace moves on,
The shadows thicken o'er the skies.
But sleep my weary eyes hath flown,
And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.
I think of thee, oh, dearest one,
Whose love my early life hath blest—
God of the gentle, frail, and lone,
Oh, guard the tender sleeper's rest.
I awaited his return with impatience, while our servants were pounding the green coffee for breakfast. After the lapse of an hour or so he cantered up to the door of our wigwam—for such it was, being half tent and half hut—sprang off and threw his reins to Lanty O'Regan.
"Berkeley?" I inquired.
"Has given you the slip for this time."
"The devil!—how?"
"Whether he has heard of your return or not I cannot say; but the yacht has left her moorings, and stood away towards the Straits of Yenikale. We shall have better luck another time; but meanwhile, here is something to solace you for your disappointment."
"His sick leave——"
"Was extended to the 17th of this month; but he was not to leave Balaclava harbour, it was presumed. I met Beverley as I was riding back, and he gave one of his quiet and significant laughs, on hearing that the yacht had put to sea."