"Yes; there was no other way. Scriven promises and agrees, and has passed his word for secrecy. Do you approve, colonel?" "Why, I suppose that I must; and you, Norcliff?" he inquired. "Wish to Heaven that I saw Malta, or even Gibraltar, sinking into the sea upon our lee quarter!" said I, with fierce fervour, as I shook Studhome’s hand, and for that night, at least, was obliged to content me, and return to my troop at Canterbury. "If one in our ranks shows the white feather before the Russians, I believe Berkeley will be the man," said Beverley, as he and Studhome smoked a last cigar with me on the platform before the down-train started. *CHAPTER XXIII.* Since there’s no help, come let us kisse and part. Nay, I have done; you get no more of me; And I am glad—yea, glad with all my heart— That thus so clearly I myself can free; Shake hands for ever. DRAYTON, 1612. Unslept and unrefreshed, after returning to Canterbury, I found myself next day at morning parade, and undergoing all the routine of regimental drill, by troop and squadron, with the hussar corps to which we were attached, while my thoughts and wishes were apparently a thousand miles away from the present time and circumstances. The prospect of "satisfaction," as it is termed, even in the unusual mode in which it was to be obtained, and though deferred, soothed me; but how was I circumstanced with Louisa? She believed me untrue to her! I was still under the false colours in which the artful Berkeley had contrived to show me. My ring was returned, and though I still wore hers, our engagement seemed to be silently, tacitly broken; her miniature I would look upon no more—its features filled me with rage and torture. Over the day which followed my last unlucky visit to the cottage near the Reculvers I shall gladly hurry. Ordering my horse—the black cover-hack with the white star on its counter—I was about to start for a ride, before mess, towards Ashford, when Pitblado placed in my hand two notes, which had just come by post. On one I recognised the handwriting of Cora; on the other the coronet and monogram of the Countess of Chillingham! My heart leaped to my head, and I tore open the latter first. It was simply a card of invitation in the usual form—the Earl and Countess of Chillingham requested the honour of Captain Norcliff’s company at a friendly dinner, at eight o’clock on the evening of the 20th inst.—only three days hence, so the time was brief; but then we were under orders of readiness, and everywhere troops—horse, foot, and artillery—were pouring towards Southampton and other places for embarkation. The note concluded by mentioning that Sir Nigel Calderwood was expected from Scotland.