"Thanks, my lord. Is he waiting?" "No, sir," said the servant, who presented it to me on a chased silver salver; "he immediately wheeled round his horse and galloped off." "Permit me," said I, tearing it open. It had been hurriedly pencilled by Frank Jocelyn, and ran thus:— "MY DEAR NORCLIFF,—The lieutenant-colonel in command of the consolidated depôts here informs me that the route for ours is at Maidstone, for which place the troop must march by daybreak to-morrow. Sorry to disturb your dinner-party; but now the word is ’Eastward ho!’" I handed it first to Louisa, and for a moment my voice failed me; but rallying, I said—"I have to apologize for a hasty departure, and shall thank you, my lord, to order my horse." Much that followed was confusion. I can remember my good uncle shaking me repeatedly by the hand, and patting me on the epaulettes (we were like officers then, and had epaulettes on our shoulders). Cora wept a great deal; Louisa was quite silent and very pale. Our parting scene passed away like a dissolving view; but the bitterness was somewhat taken from it by the whole party promising to "drive or ride over to Maidstone and see us march out;" and so, with a kind adieu from all, I sprang on my horse, quitted Chillingham Park, and soon reached the barracks, where I found Jocelyn in my quarters awaiting me, and Willie Pitblado, who had already relinquished his livery for his lancer uniform, whistling vigorously as he packed and buckled up my traps. Away from Louisa, I had no relief now for my mind but intense activity. In the dull grey light of the next morning I quitted Canterbury with my troop for Maidstone, into which we were played by our own band, which came a mile or two on the Rochester Road to meet us. There I learned from Colonel Beverley that, on the following day, we should march to join the expedition destined for the defence of Turkey. *CHAPTER XXIV.* Now, brave boys, we’re bound for marchin’, Both to Portingale and Spain; Drums are batin’, colours flyin’, And the divil a back we’ll come again. So, love, farewell, we’re all for marchin’! Eighty-eighth and Inniskillin’, Boys that’s able, boys that’s willin’; Faugh-a-ballagh and County Down, Stand by the harp, and stand by the crown. So, love, farewell, we’re all for marchin’! The colonel cries, "Boys, are yee’s ready?" "We’re at your back, sir, firm and steady; Our pouches filled with balls and poulther, And a firelock sloped on every shoulther." So, love, farewell, we’re all for marchin’!