"Young man, you speak very confidently of the fate of 'this expedition to Spain.' Do you know what you are talking about?"
"I trust, sir, that I do," replied Quentin, modestly.
"Then, perhaps," said the other, with a smile as he propounded what he deemed a puzzling question, "you will be good enough to explain the maxims which guide an expedition by land or sea?"
"I shall try," said Quentin, colouring deeply and seeking to remember some of the old quartermaster's enthusiastic tutelage.
"Do so."
"There are, I think, four great maxims."
"Yes—at least, and I shall be glad to hear them."
"First, sir, in an armed expedition of any kind, there should always be secrecy of design, and also, of all preparation. Second: the force and the means employed should always be proportionate to the end to be achieved; (which is not our case here, else we had been in Madrid to-night and not fugitives in Lugo.) Third: there is requisite a complete knowledge of the country for which the expedition is destined; in that at least our brave Sir John Moore is unequalled. Fourth: there is required a commander, who like him has all the turn of mind which is most adapted for that particular branch of the war."
"Upon my honour you are a very singular young man," replied the other, with something between a smile and a frown hovering on his fair and open countenance. "You might teach Cæsar himself a lesson; but before you go any further in your remarks, I think it right to inform you that I am Lieutenant-General Sir John Moore."
Quentin was silenced and petrified. He felt sinking with shame at his own confidence and sudden effrontery, both the offspring of gloomy disappointment; then he strove to remember all he had said, and continued to gaze almost stupidly at the worthy general, who seemed to enjoy the situation and laughed heartily, and said, in a manner that was winning and reassuring—