"And Sir John Hope, too--of course; they can do nothing else," was the confident reply, for the adjutant believed in what he said. Hope, pride, and enthusiasm swelled up in the poor lad's breast as the adjutant spoke. "Ah," thought he, "I should have offered my hand to Cosmo, and shall do so when I return." "Congratulate me, major," he exclaimed, hastening to Middleton, who entered at that moment; "I have been chosen for an important duty already." "So I have heard--so I have heard," he replied, quickly, shaking his head and his pigtail with it. "And what do you think of it? Here is the despatch, addressed 'Al Senor Don Baltasar de Saldos, Herreruela, _viâ_ Valencia de Alcantara.' "You are particularly to avoid that town," said Buckle, emphatically. "Why?" "Because a French garrison occupy it--some of General de Ribeaupierre's brigade." "It is a little way across the frontier," said Quentin; "so, my dear sir, what do you think of the duty?" "Think--that the whole affair is a cruelty and a shame!" exclaimed the old major, bluntly. "I've been looking at the map, and see that the place is some miles beyond the frontier--in the enemy's country, in fact." "Come, major, don't discourage him," said Buckle; "he must go now, and there is an end of it." "I wish there was. Does he go in uniform?" "Yes; it is safer." "How?" "In mufti he might be taken for a spy." "Uniform did not protect my poor friend André of the 26th, when taken on a similar mission." "Come, come, I'll bet you a pony apiece that Kennedy comes off with flying colours," said Monkton. "Some more butter, Askerne--where's the pepper-box?--Quentin is a devilish sharp fellow, and always keeps his weather eye open, as the sailors say." "What is the distance between this and Herreruela?" asked Askerne, who had hitherto remained silent. "About thirty British miles, as a crow flies." "And he is to proceed on foot?" "But he can do so at leisure--there is no word of breaking up our cantonments here yet." "But in this country miles seem to vary very much, Mr. Buckle," said Quentin; "when am I supposed to be back?" "Back?" repeated Buckle, rather puzzled. "Excuse my asking," said the lad, modestly; "but I am so ignorant of the country, and so forth." "True, Kennedy. Well, supposing that you see this Baltasar de Saldos--fine melodramatic name, isn't it?--he is doubtless a fellow in a steeple-crowned hat and seven-league boots, all stuck over pistols and daggers--supposing you sec him at once, there is nothing to prevent you being back in six days, at latest."