"Our native land--our native vale-- A long and last adieu; Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Cheviot mountains blue! The battle-mound, the border-tower, That Scotia's annals tell; The martyr's grave--the lover's bower-- To each, to all--farewell."--PRINGLE. Cosmo studiously and ungenerously omitted the slightest mention of Quentin's name or existence in the letters which he wrote home to Carrick, well knowing that if he did so, the kind old general, his father, would at once address the authorities at the Horse Guards on the subject of the young volunteer's advancement; and he knew, that if appointed to any other corps than the Borderers, Quentin would be beyond his influence, and free from the wiles and perils in which he had mentally proposed to involve his future career. At last came the day so long looked forward to by all the regiment--the day of its departure for foreign service, as it proved in the Spanish Peninsula, the land to which, after several useless and bloody expeditions to Holland, Flanders, Sweden, and Italy, the thoughts and hopes and all the sympathies of Britain turned, with the desire of driving out the victorious French, and restoring the Bourbon dynasty--almost an old story now, so remote have the struggles before Sebastopol and the wars of India made the great battles of those days seem to be. The regiment had been under orders, and in a state of readiness for weeks; but until, for it and for others, the _route_ came in the sabretasche of an orderly dragoon who rode spurring in "hot haste" to Colchester Barracks, its members knew not for what country they were destined. The drums beat the _générale_, the signal for marching, early in the morning of a soft September day, and the four pipers of the regiment played loud and high a piobroch, that rang wildly, in all its various parts, through the calm air, waking every echo of the old barrack square; for the piobroch, we may inform the uninitiated, is a regular piece of music, containing several portions; beginning with an alarm, after which follow the muster, the march, the fury of the charge, the shrill triumph of victory, and the low sad wail for the slain. With our battalion of the Borderers, there were to march on this morning another of the Gordon Highlanders--the 92nd--one of the most noble of our national corps, together with a strong detachment of the 91th, under Captain Warriston, so the enthusiasm of all was at its height when, in heavy marching order, with great coats rolled on the knapsacks, blankets folded behind them, havresacks and wooden canteens slung, the companies fell in, and there seemed to be a rivalry between the kilted pipers of the 92nd and the Borderers as to who should excel most, or (as Cosmo, who was not inspired by overmuch nationality, said to Middleton) who should "make the most infernal noise."