"Crawford doesn't like you, Quentin," said Askerne, after the staff rode away; "it is a great pity, for, though cold and haughty, he is a brave and good officer."
"Damme, don't scoff at the service, Askerne," said Monkton, with mock severity.
Poor Quentin had a heavy heart that night; we are not sure that he did not shed some bitter and unavailing tears, for the forebodings of coming evil banished sleep when he most needed it, and crushed the soul within him.
But his comrades as usual sat long by the watch-fire, passing the night with song, jest, and anecdote. They had neither care for the present nor fear for the future, and their jollity formed a strong contrast to his forlorn sadness.
"I think we should now turn in," said Monkton; "we march betimes to-morrow; to your tents, O Borderers! But what the deuce is that?"
"The générale," said Colville.
"Already!"
"Already, Monkton; and there sounds the gathering of the Gordons in the streets of Montijo."
"The nights are very short in the Penin-in-insula," said Monkton, scrambling up and making several attempts to buckle his belt.
"You'll have to sober yourself on the march, Willie," said Askerne, giving him a rough shake.