"Why?" asked they. "Because I owe nothing to my family, and hate them as they hate me--the living at least. Whatever I may do to gain honour or promotion, will never be acknowledged by my comrades, who will be certain to attribute success to the fortuitous circumstance of family and name." "Egad! you are right, boy, and I love and respect your spirit," said Charters. "I have more than once seen a poor fellow gain the ill-will and malevolence of his comrades for being better born or better bred than those among whom his lot was cast, and thus bitterness came with prosperity." "Your solemn pledge, then, that you will keep my secret?" said I, earnestly. They promised, and I may add that the worthy fellows never betrayed it; but they too had each a secret, which they confided to me as we sat together over a glass of beer in a wayside tavern, a few miles from Rothbury. "If I had not had the misfortune to have been born a genius, I should perhaps never have been a soldier," said Kirkton. "A genius--you?" exclaimed the corporal, laughing. "Sorry am I to say it, for 'tis the fate of geniuses to be restless and unfortunate. True; Boetus, who wrote on the battle of Philippi, died in prison; Plautus was a baker's drudge and turned a hand-mill; Terentius Publius was the slave of a Roman senator----. And I, Thomas Kirkton, am a private in the Scots Greys!" "'Tis an ungrateful world, my friends," added the other, with an air of tragi-comedy that made us both laugh. CHAPTER VII. MY COMRADES. Tom Kirkton was the son of a thrifty and prudent Scottish clergyman, who had educated him for the Church, in the hope that he might be his assistant and successor; but the wild life led by Tom when at college, a natural impetuosity of temper, a genius for everything but application--rash adventures and excitements--with stories of nights spent in gambling and carousing, and rumours of various _intrigues d'amour_, led to his formal expulsion by the Reverend Principal, and ultimately drove him into the ranks of the Scots Greys. Time and experience had somewhat tempered the reckless tenor of his ways, and, though his boisterous manner was rather startling at times, I could not but deem myself fortunate in having a companion so well educated as he. The story of Charters was indeed a singular one. Five miles north-east of Dumfries there stands a tall, square, and ancient fortress called the Castle of Amisfield, between the two head streams of the Lochar. For centuries this great tower had been the stronghold and residence of the Scoto-Norman family of Charters, of whom my comrade, the corporal, was the last representative.