ONLY AN ENSIGN A Tale of the Retreat from Cabul. BY JAMES GRANT, AUTHOR OF "THE ROMANCE OF WAR," "FIRST LOVE AND LAST LOVE," "LADY WEDDERBURN'S WISH," ETC. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. "Come what come may, Time and the Hour runs through the roughest day."--_Macbeth._ LONDON: TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1871. [_All Rights Reserved._] LONDON: BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. CONTENTS. CHAP. I.--PAR NOBILE FRATRUM! II.--DOWNIE'S REFLECTIONS III.--MR. W. S. SHARKLEY'S PLOT IV.--THE HOPE OF THE DEAD V.--RETRIBUTION VI.--AT JELLALABAD VII.--THE SCHEME OF ZOHRAB VIII.--MABEL DELUDED IX.--BY THE HILLS OF BEYMAROO X.--AGAIN IN CABUL XI.--THE ABODE OF THE KHOND XII.--THE SHADE WITHIN THE SHADOW XIII.--ROSE IN A NEW CHARACTER XIV.--WITH SALE'S BRIGADE XV.--THE BATTLE OF TIZEEN XVI.--TO TOORKISTAN! XVII.--MABEL'S PRESENTIMENT XVIII.--THE GOVERNOR OF BAMEEAN XIX.--THE ALARM XX.--TOO LATE! XXI.--THE PURSUIT XXII.--THE HOSTAGES XXIII.--THE DURBAR XXIV.--THE LAMP OF LOVE XXV.--CONCLUSION ONLY AN ENSIGN. CHAPTER I. PAR NOBILE FRATRUM! "So, fellow, I am expected by you to swallow this 'tale of a tub,' which has been invented or revived solely for the purposes of monetary extortion!" exclaimed Downie Trevelyan, with the most intense and crushing hauteur, as he lay back in the same luxurious easy chair in which his uncle died, and played with his rich gold eye-glass and watered silk riband. "It ain't a tale of a tub, my lord; but of the wreck of a _steamer_--the steamer _Admiral_ of Montreal," replied Sharkley, meekly and sententiously. Downie surveyed him through his double eyeglass, thinking that Sharkley was laughing covertly at him; but no such thought was hovering in the mind of that personage, who was not much of a laugher at any time, save when he had successfully outwitted or jockeyed any one. He seemed very ill at ease, and sat on the extreme edge of a handsome brass-nailed morocco chair, with his tall shiny hat placed upon his knees, and his long, bare, dirty-looking fingers played the while somewhat nervously on the crown thereof, as he glanced alternately and irresolutely from the speaker to the titular Lady Lamorna, who was also eyeing him, as a species of natural curiosity, through her glass, and whose absence he devoutly wished, but feared to hint that she might withdraw. She was reclining languidly on a sofa, with her fan, her lace handkerchief, her agate scent-bottle, and her everlasting half-cut novel--she was never known to read one quite through--lying beside her; and she had only relinquished her chief employment of toying with Bijou, her waspish Maltese spaniel (which nestled in a little basket of mother-of-pearl, lined with white satin), when an aiguletted valet had ushered in "Mr. W. S. Sharkley, Solicitor." "Leave us, Gartha, please," said her husband; "I must speak with this person alone."