“We had yesterday a sharp brush with the Enemy, after reaching this; and I am sorely put about, for Jack has vanished. When last I set eyes on him, he was well in advance of his Company, waving his sword, and shouting to us to come on. And come on we did, and put the Enemy to rout; yet Jack may have fallen into their hands. I with others searched in every direction, both among those who were wounded and those who were killed; but, thank God, Jack was not among them. He must therefore, I fear, be prisoner. This sheet I will not send off, even should opportunity offer, until I know as to Jack. I w^d not awake Polly’s fears for naught. He may even yet turn up again unharmed. We rest here for two days.” Roy wrote these words by the light of a small lamp, lying flat upon the ground in a bare little hut, which he occupied while at Lugo. Some slight movement, as of one coming in, made him glance up, with a spring of hope. Had Jack returned? A tall cloaked figure quietly entered. Roy leaped to his feet as if he had received an electric shock, his bewildered gaze encountering the last face that he would have expected to see at that moment—a face pale, tried and stern, with the dark steadfast eyes which never yet had flinched before life’s battles. They did not flinch now, meeting this heaviest of all trials to one of Moore’s temperament—having to retire before his Country’s foes.[3] The last three years had brought sharp discipline to John Moore. Strain had followed strain; disappointment had followed disappointment; while still through all his dauntless spirit had risen superior to every opposition. But the sufferings of his men upon this march went to his very heart; and the partial loss of discipline, in a force of which he had been so justly proud, cut him to the quick. Despite everything, he was as a rule not calm only, but serene. Yet now and again a shadow of deep though passing sadness would fall upon him, as at this moment. Something in that face appealed keenly to the young Ensign’s sympathies. Then in a flash dread seized upon Roy. What might this visit portend? Moore _could_ rebuke his subordinates scathingly—crushingly—when necessity arose. Roy felt that death would be far preferable to any words of stern reproof from those lips. But he had not consciously failed in his duty. Could it, perhaps, mean ill news of Jack? Sir John glanced round before speaking. “Not too luxurious quarters, Baron,” he remarked, and his smile lacked its usual brilliance. “Good enough, sir!” replied Roy, with the prompt cheerfulness which from the first had marked him out in Moore’s eyes. “If only Captain Keene——” “Ay! You are anxious about Keene.” “Yes, sir. I’ve been able to find out nothing.” “So Napier informed me. I was passing this way, and I have looked in to tell you. He is prisoner.”