"Nay, senor; but if it would please you to give me to-night your reply to the general commanding our division, it would favour me greatly."
This simple question seemed to raise some undefinable suspicion, or recall something unpleasant to the Spaniard's mind, for, knitting his thick black brows over his deeply-set and lynx-like eyes, he regarded Quentin with a steady scrutiny, and said:
"You are not an officer, it would seem? (How often had this remark stung poor Quentin.) You have no sash, gorget, or epaulettes?"
"No, senor," replied Quentin, with a sigh; "I have not the good fortune."
"What are you then—a simple soldado?"
"Senor," replied Quentin, with growing irritation, for, in truth, he was very weary of his long day's journey, and its exciting episodes; "the letter you have just read, I believe, tells you what you require to know."
"Santos! you are a bold fellow to bear yourself thus to me."
"I am a British soldier on military duty," replied Quentin, loftily, as he saw that hardihood was the only quality appreciated by his new acquaintances.
"What is this? You are styled, voluntario del Regimiento Viente y Cinco—Fronteros del Rey—is that it?"
"A volunteer of the King's Own Borderers—yes."