"So we are about to make a night of it, the first jolly one we have had since landing at the mouth of the Maciera, and, damme, here is poor Quentin going to leave us!" said Monkton, who in his shirt sleeves was devilling a huge dish of kidneys over a brasero, for the orthodox fuel of which (charcoal) he had substituted the shutter of a window, torn down and broken to pieces. "One glass more of Oporto for the gravy, another dash of pepper, and the banquet is complete. You must have supper with us to-night, ere you go, Quentin." The same readily found fuel was roasting on the marble slab of the richly carved fireplace, a goodly row of sputtering castanos, which were superintended by Rowland Askerne. "Where is Pimple to-night?" he asked, looking up. "With Colville, on the quarter guard," said Monkton; "and, rosaries and wrinkles! where do you think they are stationed?" "By your exclamation, opposite a convent, probably." "Exactly--el Convento de Santa Engracia; but it hasn't a window to the street, so they might as well have the wall of China to contemplate." A borrachio skin of Herrera del Duque (the famous wine of the Badajoz district), of which Monkton had somehow become possessed, lay on the beautiful marqueterie table, like a bloated bagpipe, while tin canteens, silver-rimmed drinking-horns, tea-cups, everything but crystal vessels, were ranged round to imbibe the contents from. The plates and other appurtenances of the table were of the same varied description, and were furnished by the guests themselves, as the French had carried off or destroyed nearly everything in the house. A canteen of brandy and a loaf of fine white bread completed the repast, to which all brought good humour and appetites that were quite startling, better than any they could ever procure for the dainties of the mess-table at Colchester. Servants were entirely dispensed with; thus the conversation was free and unrestrained, like the jests and laughter. "I can scarcely assure myself that you are actually going to-night," said the major to Quentin; "the whole arrangement is a black, burning shame; an older man, one of more experience, one who has been longer in the country and had served the campaign in Portugal, should have been sent on this duty." "But the greater is my chance of honour!" said Quentin, cheerfully. "And peril too. Your health--and success, boy! This wine is excellent, Monkton--but the service is going to the devil! we have never been the men we were since the abolition of hair-powder and pigtails, brigadier wigs and Nivernois hats! Think of a garrison court-martial according four hundred and odd lashes to a poor devil yesterday, for borrowing a loaf of bread like this, when we are all so far in arrears of pay; and yet, I remember when we ate Jack Andrews' baby in America, men were tucked up to the next tree for just as little." "Jack Andrews' baby," said Quentin, looking up from his devilled kidneys at the familiar name.