"Never mind that; an hour's sleep less or more is scarcely to be considered when lives are in jeopardy. Where is the meeting place?"
"The bridge of Toledo. You will barely be in time. Six is the hour; it wants fifteen minutes of it by my watch."
"Well, you may leave me now."
Knowing it was needless to say any more about a reconciliation Chisholm departed; and Ronald, after buckling on his sword and dirk, stood for a few minutes holding his bonnet in his hand irresolutely, while he sunk into a reverie of deep and bitter reflections, of what his affectionate old sire and faithful dependants at Lochisla would feel should he die by the hand of Lisle, whose very name they regarded with so much jealousy and distrust. He also thought of Alice and Lord Lisle, what their sentiments would be if the reverse was the case, and the one lost a dear brother—the other a beloved son, who was the only heir and hope of an ancient house, and the successor to its title. He remembered also the words of Louis. Could it be that Alice might yet love him? But no; that was impossible! He threw his cloak around him, and rushed from the chamber to seek that of Macdonald, who was ready to attend him in a moment. Suddenly remembering that he had no pistols, he urned into an apartment occupied by Major Campbell, to request the loan of his.
It was a spacious and splendid room, with a ceiling twenty feet in height. A colonnade supported the roof, the carved beams of which stretched across from the gilded cornices on each side. The ceiling and walls were covered with frescoes, but the plaster and the once bright and gorgeous gilding were miserably faded and dilapidated by time and neglect. Rolled in his cloak, and coiled up in a corner of this vast and empty hall, the bulky frame of Campbell lay on the tessellated pavement, and no doubt he found it a bed somewhat cold and hard. His pillow was formed by his long Andrea and favourite rung, with a plaid rolled round them. His dirk and steel Highland pistols lay on one side of him, and an empty pigskin on the other. Very desolate indeed he appeared, lying in a corner of that huge apartment, which was totally destitute of furniture. Ronald shook him by the shoulder.
"If that is you, Serjeant Macildhui," said he, speaking very crossly beneath the cape of his cloak, "I must beg leave to inform you, that I have nothing to do now with No. 1 company. I am done with all that sort of dirty work, as you will see by the last Gazette. Apply to Mr. Kennedy, and take yourself off till the drum beats. I wish the infernal Horse Guards would order six halting days every week, instead of only Sunday and Thursday."
"Look up, major! 'Tis I—Stuart."
"What is the matter?" cried the other, bolting up, and showing that the contents of the borachio skin were operating still on his brain; "what is the matter now? It is very hard that a field-officer, and one too that has seen the fields of Alexandria, Egmont-op-Zee, and the onslaught of Copenhagen, should be so pestered by subalterns. How this hard bed makes my bones ache! I have slept softer on the hot yellow sand in Egypt. They tell me this was the bed-room of Don Alfonso the First, king of Castile. Devil mend him! I suppose he did not sleep on the pavement with a claymore for a pillow, like Colin Campbell of Craigfianteoch, in Lorne, a better man—for what is any Castilian don when compared to a duine-wassal of Argyle?" The major snapped his fingers, and it was evident he was very tipsy. "But what do you want, Ronald, my boy?" he added.
"The loan of your pistols, major, for ten minutes only. I have a very disagreeable affair to adjust this morning."
"I regret to hear it; but it is with none of ours, I hope, my knight of Santiago?"