"Flora, you say—are you sure it is not Donna Isidora?"
"Impossible—thank Heaven!—a Miss Flora Warrender."
"Warrender—Warrender—I know that name; is she of Ardgour?"
"The same."
"Her father fell at the head of the Corsican Rangers, in Egypt. I knew him well—a brave old fellow as ever wore a red coat."
"You will not speak of this before our fellows?" urged Quentin, earnestly.
"Betray confidence! you have my word, Kennedy. And now let me to bed. I am for the baggage-guard; as we are falling back, it starts with the artillery, two hours before the division marches to-morrow."
The ring had now a new interest in Quentin's eyes, and he was never tired of reading the six mystical stones.
"Dearest Flora," he said to himself, "how happy I am now, that not even that lovely Spaniard could for a moment tempt me to forget you!"
For all that, the "lovely Spaniard" was very nearly doing a vast deal of mischief.