L'Isle was provoked to see that Lord Strathern was laughing at him, and said, earnestly, "You cannot have forgotten, my lord, the state of the army at the end of the campaign. Little has yet been done to bring this brigade up to the mark, and little will be achieved by it in the coming campaign in its present state. Now is the time to check the licentious spirit by making some severe examples."
"I will do no such thing," said Lord Strathern, coolly. "The occasion does not call for it. We will be in the field shortly, and want all the bayonets we can muster. The brigade is too weak to spare men from the ranks to put into irons."
"I did not suppose," said L'Isle, "that the warning my Lord Wellington gave us not long since, would be so soon forgotten."
L'Isle alluded to the circular letter Wellington had addressed to his subordinates, at the end of the campaign, in which he had politely dubbed half of his officers idlers, whose habitual neglect of duty suffered their commands to run into ruffianism. Perhaps their commander was suffering under a fit of indigestion when he wrote it. It certainly caused a general heartburning among his officers. Lord Strathern, among others, had found it hard to digest, and now angrily denounced it unjust.
"Well, my lord," said L'Isle, with more zeal than discretion, "by the end of the campaign our men may be in a state to be improved by a touch of discipline from Julian Sanchez or Carlos d'Espana, unless they reject them as too much like banditti!"
"And I am captain of the banditti!" exclaimed Lord Strathern, in a sudden rage. "As you do not yet command the brigade, let me beg you, sir, to go and look after your own people, and keep them up to the mark, lest they become banditti!"
"I always obey orders, my lord," said L'Isle, with suddenly assumed composure; "I will go and look after my own regiment, and let the rest of the brigade march"—
"Where, sir?" thundered Lord Strathern.
"Their own road," L'Isle answered, and bowed himself out of the room. He walked sedately through the long corridor that led to the entrance of this monastic house, then, yielding to some violent impulse, sprang into his saddle, and plunging his spurs into his horse's flanks, dashed out of the court and through the olive grounds at a killing pace. His astonished groom stared at him for a moment, then followed with emulous speed. As L'Isle turned suddenly into the high road, a voice called out: "Don't ride me down; I'm no Frenchman!" and he saw Colonel Bradshawe quickly but coolly press his ambling cob close to the hedge, to avoid his charge.
"You seem to be in a hurry, L'Isle. Hallo! here is another!" said the colonel, giving his horse another dexterous turn, to shun the onset of the groom. "What news has come? Or have you joined the dragoons? Or are you merely running a race with your man here?"