"Which means?" asked Askerne, who had been trying to make it out.
"In good Portuguese, 'If you can't be chaste, at least be cautious,' an old-fashioned aphorism," said Monkton.
"Poor Portugal!" said Askerne, thoughtfully; "she is left now but with mere traditions of her past; a country without kings, warriors, poets or painters. The land of Camoens, of Rodriguez Lobo, of Antonio Ferreria, Bernardez, the captive of Alcazalquiver, of Andrade de Cominha, cannot now produce one patriotic song!"
In one corner of the apartment a dark stain on the floor showed where blood had been lately shed, and there were the marks of a woman's hand upon the wall and oak boards, as if she had been dragged from place to place, thus telling of some terrible outrage—an episode of its recent occupants, the French.
"Now, what the devil is the meaning of this?" asked Monkton, looking up from his culinary operations as Buckle entered; "Kennedy can't be the first man for duty."
"No, he is not," replied Buckle, curtly, for having on his sword and gorget, he felt and looked official.
"Then why the——"
"Why select him, you would ask, with the addition of some unpleasant adjective?"
"Yes."
"Because a volunteer is always the first man for any duty that is dangerous."