This grandly philosophical, and most truly Spanish, view of the case destroyed poor Hilary’s last fond hope of any sense of a debt of honour, on the part of the Montalvans. If the money lost had been Hilary’s own, the Count of Zamora (all compact of chivalry and rectitude) might have discovered that he was bound to redeem his daughter’s robbery. But as it stood, there was no such chance. Private honour is a mountain rill that does not always lead to any lake of public honesty. All Spaniards would bow to the will of the Lord, that British guineas should slip into Spanish hands so providentially. “We do not take things just so,” said young Lorraine quite sadly. “I must go home and restore the money. Donna Camilla, I must say farewell.” “You will come again when you are restored? When you have proved that you did not take the money for yourself, Senhor, you will remember your Spanish friends?” “I never shall forget my Spanish friends. To you I owe my life, and hold it (as long as I hold it) at your command.” “It is generously said, Senhor. Generosity always makes me weep. And so, farewell.” CHAPTER LIV. GOING UP THE TREE. In all the British army--then a walking wood of British oak, without a yard of sapling--there was no bit of better stuff than the five feet and a quarter (allowing for his good game leg) of Major, by this time Colonel Clumps. This officer knew what he had to do, and he made a point of doing it. Being short of imagination, he despised that foolish gift, and marvelled over and over again at others for laughing so at nothing. That whimsical tickling of the veins of thought, which some people give so and some receive (with equal delight on either side), humour, or wit, or whatever it is, to Colonel Clumps was a vicious thing. Everything must be either true or false. If it were true, who could laugh at the truth? If it were false, who should laugh at a falsehood? Many a good man has reasoned thus, reducing laughter under law, and himself thenceforth abandoned by that lawless element. Colonel Clumps had always taken solid views of everything, and the longer he lived in the world the less he felt inclined to laugh at it. But, that laughter might not be robbed of all its dues and royalties, just nature had provided that, as the Colonel would not laugh at the world, the world should laugh at the Colonel. He had been the subject of more bad jokes, one-sided pleasantries, and heartless hoaxes, than any other man in the army; with the usual result that now he scarcely ever believed the truth, while he still retained, for the pleasure of his friends, a tempting stock of his native confidence in error. So it came to pass that when Colonel Clumps (after the battle of Vittoria, in which he had shown conspicuous valour) was told of poor Hilary’s sad disgrace, he was a great deal too clever and astute to believe a single word of it.