Roland had and still loved Hester, and in his heart believed in her as an embodiment of all that is good and pure in womanhood; but rather unwisely had allowed the fact to be guessed at by her, thinking that she understood him, and that his declaration might be made at any time; and, as we have shown, he was quite upon the point thereof, when Annot Drummond came with her wiles and smiles to prove the evil genius of them both.
In connection with Annot's name he almost let his scornful lips form a malediction now—that name once linked with the dearest and fondest terms his fancy could frame. Yet he could not even now class all women under her category, and believe that beauty was given them for the sole purpose of winning men's hearts without losing their own. But his reflections at times on his own folly were fiery and bitter for all that; and as a sedative he enjoyed to the utmost extent the daily excitement of active service now in that remarkable land, the Soudan.
Christmas-night in the camp at Korti was indeed a merry one, and although under the eyes of Lord Wolseley and his staff, the soldiers were in no way repressed in their jollity and fun—for a little of the latter goes a long way in the army—and, all unlike the Northern Yule to which they were accustomed, it was without snow or icicles, holly-berries, mistletoe, and plum-pudding; but those who lingered round these watch-fires on the arid sand of the Soudan had many a kindly and tender thought of the bright family circles, the loved faces, and household scenes of those who were dear to them, and were so far, far away beyond the drear Bayuda Desert, and beyond the seas, in many a pretty English village, where the Christmas carols were being sung while the chimes rang joyously in the old ivied steeple, in memory of the star that shone over Bethlehem—the herald of peace and goodwill to men.
Ere that festival came again more than one battle had to be fought—Khartoum would be lost or won—Gordon saved or abandoned and betrayed—and many a young heart that was full of joy and hope would be as cold as inexorable death could make it; but no thought of these things marred the merry night our soldiers spent as they turned into the bivouac at Korti—for though called a camp, it was scarcely a complete one.
Dick Mostyn had procured some wine from an enterprising Greek sutler; and this he shared freely with Lindsay and others while it lasted.
Though poor, and such as was never seen on the mess-table, it was voted 'capital stuff,' in that part of the world, and Dick—with a sigh—wished his 'throat was a mile long,' as he drained the last of it.
'Such a wonderful flow of spirits you always have, Dick!' said Lindsay.
'Well—I have made up my mind to be jolly, remembering Mark Tapley and his Eden,' replied Mostyn.
'Jolly on your couch—the sand?'
'Jolly as a sandboy—yes; yet not disinclined to pray for the man who invented a good feather-bed, even as Sancho Panza did for him who invented sleep.'