"At what hour does the court assemble to-morrow?" he asked.
"Ten, Kennedy."
"Who is the president?"
"Colonel Colquhoun Grant, of the King's Light Dragoons—a hussar corps."
"Where does it meet?" asked Quentin, wearily.
"In one of the rooms of the Alva Palace. Now we cannot stay above ten minutes, Quentin. We are both in orders for the court, which of course is a mixed one, and this visit, if known, might cost us our commissions perhaps; but I know Monkton's servant to be a sure fellow."
"Sure, sir," repeated the soldier, "I should think so! It was to my poor wife and child that Mr. Kennedy—the Lord reward him for it!—gave his blanket on the night we bivouacked at the Escurial," added the man, in a broken voice; "the night I lost them both—never to see them again."
Askerne now asked Quentin many questions concerning his recent wanderings; the answers to some of these he jotted down in his note-book; and he gave much good advice for his guidance on the morrow, adding, with a sigh of annoyance, that he feared there was a deep scheme formed against him, and that, as several outrages had been committed by our retreating troops, it was not improbable that he might be sacrificed to soothe the ruffled feelings of the Spaniards.
"What leads you to think so?" asked Quentin.
"This subpœna, which Monkton's servant picked up in a wine-house and brought us," replied Askerne, opening a letter and reading it, as follows: