In the whole aspect of this sleeping beauty there was a nameless charm, which extremely interested me. Courtesy compelled me to retire immediately; but I could not restrain my desire to know what book she had been reading, and it proved to be a Spanish drama by Cervantes, that brave soldier whose name will ever reflect immortal lustre on the noble profession of arms. Charmed with the air of innocence and candour which pervaded this unknown beauty, I would fain have kissed the little hand that drooped over one arm of the sofa; but hearing voices, I softly and hastily withdrew, mentally resolving--like a rogue who had fought his way through all the classes of the King's College--that our acquaintance should end less abruptly than it had begun. Ascending to the third story of the great and seemingly desolate house, I found myself in presence of my cousin Ian, and our lieutenant M'Alpine, for, as I have said, we had all been happily billeted in the same edifice; and in one of its unfurnished chambers Phadrig Mhor was lighting a fire, and preparing a meal with all the ease and rapidity of a Highland mountaineer. CHAPTER VII. THE REPAST. "Welcome, Philip, as we are here before you," said Ian; "in the name of mischief's mother, where have you been wandering to?" "Over all this empty house, which I vow is like a great castle, and is almost without furniture." "Almost!" replied Ian; "why, my cousin, except this room, and that one occupied by the Hausmeister, it seems quite deserted. Its inhabitants have all died of the plague----" "The plague!--pleasant that, for their successors." "This was four years ago; or else they have fled to Copenhagen, to escape the chances and mischances of war--the troubles (as the Hausmeister calls them) which always attend the march of foreign troops." "Troubles?" said I. "Ay," replied our lieutenant, Angus Roy M'Alpine, who had been in the Low Countries and Germany before; "troubles--for so the Hausmeister was pleased to name free inquartering, and the occasional abduction of a pretty maid or a wine-cask, things that will now and then happen, where soldiers shake their feathers." "He is an ill-looking dog, that Hausmeister," I observed, "and wears a devilish odd hat and pair of breeches--I hate the aspect of the varlet!" "Hate no one, Philip," said M'Alpine, quietly; "for hatred and anger are sure to go together--and sorrow perchance may follow; but I instinctively dislike this person, too." M'Alpine, a fine-looking soldier, and brave fellow, was somewhat of a gloomy and thoughtful cast. Having once slain a friend in a single combat (as we were informed)--the result of a sudden quarrel--he made a vow to wear crape on his left arm till the end of his days, and never to give another challenge, though he had often received them, and been compelled to fight more than once in defence of his honour and reputation.