By the time that Moore got home from Sweden, Sir Arthur Wellesley had already been despatched to Portugal, with a force of nine thousand men, and the eleven thousand who had been on this fruitless errand to Sweden were not even allowed to disembark, but were at once ordered to Portsmouth, Moore being summoned to an interview with Lord Castlereagh. An evening or two later, Jack rushed in upon the Bryce circle in hot haste. “Jack! Hallo, man! What’s up now? Something out of the common by the looks of you,” declared Mr. Bryce, as he sat near the open window; a small and ugly and genial man, in flowered waistcoat, velvet tights, and silver-buckled shoes. “You’re just in time, my good fellow. In three days we’re off to Brighthelmstone.” “And if I might but have had my will, we should be there already,” added his “better-half” discontentedly. “How d’you all do? How do you do, ma’am? Find yourself well, Polly? Heard the news? I suppose not.” “What news?” at the same moment from Mr. and Mrs. Bryce, Polly and Molly. “Sir John Moore is ordered off to Spain, and our regiment is under orders too.” “Oh!”—from Molly, under her breath. “And if Roy should be taken prisoner——” “Or if he should not!” suggested Mr. Bryce. “Nay, child, we’ll permit no doleful foretellings. What’s up, Jack? ’Tis no ill news to you to be ordered to the seat of war?” “Ill news? No!”—with sufficient energy. “Yet you look uncommon like to a thunder-cloud—ready to burst. Hey, what’s wrong?” “Could wish nothing better than to go, sir. Every man in the Army is wild to be off. But I’m angry, I’ll admit. ’Tis inconceivable that such a man as Sir John should have enemies, yet there’s no other explanation.” “Enemies where?” “I’m not so bold as to say. But ’tis a fact that, after serving in Sicily and in Sweden as chief in command, he’s now to be placed in a subordinate position as third. I’ve heard Major Napier declaim against the shame it was that they didn’t make him from the first supreme Commander in Sicily; but this—why, ’tis infinitely greater shame. The thing is beyond comprehension!” “Yet the King and the Duke of York are ever his friends,” mused Mr. Bryce, passing a meditative hand over his chin. “And Lord Castlereagh esteems him highly.” “So all say; but the chopping and the changing that’s to take place—’tis amazing! There’s Sir Arthur Wellesley in command of one army gone to Spain, and Sir John till now in command of another, and both of ’em to be under Sir Hew Dalrymple when he can get to Portugal, and till he does, Sir Harry Burrard is to act for him. Moore—the foremost and most brilliant officer England has ever owned—to be under Burrard and Dalrymple! Has the world gone crazed?” “For what reason are the changes?” asked Mr. Bryce.