Ronald glanced his eye over the next paragraph, and passed it over in silence and confusion.
"A little flirtation en passant, you know, will not injure your allegiance to the fair ladye whose miniature—but you may burn my letter without reading further, should I write much on that subject. Angus Mackie, a private of your company, was the other night engaged in a regular brawl with the natives of Almendralejo,—some love affair with the daughter of an old abogado (lawyer). I refer you for the particulars to the bearer, who was engaged in it. We had another row at Almendralejo the day we entered it. Some Spaniard, by way of insult, ran his dagger into the bag of Ranald Dhu's pipe, and so great was the wrath of the 'Son of the Mist,' that he dirked him on the spot; and although the fellow is not dead, he is declared by Doctor Stuart to be 'in a doubtful state.'
"I have sent you an Edinburgh paper, (a month or two old,) wherein you will see by the 'Gazette' that a Louis Lisle has been appointed to us, vice poor Oliphant Cassilis, killed in the battle of Arroya. There are people of the name in Perthshire; perhaps you may know something of this Lisle."
The blood rushed into Ronald's face, and a mixed feeling of pleasure and shame to meet the brother of Alice filled his mind. He read on—
"I was just about to conclude this long letter, when some strange news arrived. Ciudad Rodrigo has been invested, and it is supposed must capitulate soon. Our division has been ordered by Lord Wellington to retire into Portugal forthwith; the 'gathering' is at this moment ringing through the streets of Villa Franca, and the corps is getting under arms.—Adieu, &c.
ALISTER MACDONALD."
"P.S.—L. Lisle is at Lisbon, bringing up a detachment for ours,—a hundred rank and file. I do not know what route we take for Portugal; but you had better endeavour to join us on the way."
CHAPTER XI.
ALICE LISLE.—NEWS FROM HOME.
"As you are beauteous, were you half so true,
Here could I live, and love, and die for only you.
Now I to fighting fields am sent afar,
And strive in winter camps with toils of war;
While you, alas, that I should find it so!—"
Virgil, Pastoral x.