"Well, and Foy attributes them——"
"To two great elements you Anglais possess."
"Powder and pluck?"
"No—rum and ros-bif—ha, ha! Au revoir—we shall meet again," and putting spurs to his horse, Ribeaupierre, keeping his white handkerchief still displayed, rode across to his own lines, turning, however, repeatedly to kiss his hand, as his horse caracoled along.
Relieved from his post, Quentin rejoined the main body of the picquet in the grove of trees, where he remained apart from the men and full of thought; for though his self-esteem was somewhat piqued on learning that Isidora had so easily forgot him, he was greatly pleased to hear of her safety, and hoped that the circumstance, when known, would relieve him from the hostility of Baltasar and his ragamuffins, of whom he not unnaturally had a constant dread. These ideas were mingled with something of amusement—that the brother-in-law of Baltasar, the most ferocious of Spanish patriots, should be a Frenchman!
Just as the picquets rejoined their regiments, prior to the whole division moving from Avila, Rowland Askerne called Quentin aside, and, with a face expressive of extreme concern, said—
"I wish to speak particularly with you, Quentin—there is evidently something most unpleasant on the tapis."
"Regarding what—or who?"
"You, my friend."
"Me—how—in what way?" asked Quentin.