"Mr. Kennedy," said Cosmo, beckoning forward the anxious listener; "a message saying where we shall halt to-morrow is to be despatched to the guerilla De Saldos; you will, of course, only be too happy to bear it?" "I beg most respectfully to decline, sir," said Quentin, emphatically, and with growing anger. "What the devil, sirrah?" Cosmo was beginning. "Ha--indeed, and wherefore?" asked the general. "I am scarcely able to keep up with the regiment, General Hope," replied Quentin; "I have been seriously ill, and am more fit for hospital than for duty." The general knit his brows, and Cosmo dealt Quentin, through his eyeglass, a glance of cool scrutiny, that deepened into withering scorn or hate without alloy. "Very well, we must send an orderly dragoon," said Sir John Hope, turning away. "Take care, Mr. Kennedy," said Cosmo, "lest at a future time this refusal may be remembered against you to your disadvantage." "Crawford doesn't like you, Quentin," said Askerne, after the staff rode away; "it is a great pity, for, though cold and haughty, he is a brave and good officer." "Damme, don't scoff at the service, Askerne," said Monkton, with mock severity. Poor Quentin had a heavy heart that night; we are not sure that he did not shed some bitter and unavailing tears, for the forebodings of coming evil banished sleep when he most needed it, and crushed the soul within him. But his comrades as usual sat long by the watch-fire, passing the night with song, jest, and anecdote. They had neither care for the present nor fear for the future, and their jollity formed a strong contrast to his forlorn sadness. "I think we should now turn in," said Monkton; "we march betimes to-morrow; to your tents, O Borderers! But what the deuce is that?" "The _générale_," said Colville. "Already!" "Already, Monkton; and there sounds the gathering of the Gordons in the streets of Montijo." "The nights are very short in the Penin-in-insula," said Monkton, scrambling up and making several attempts to buckle his belt. "You'll have to sober yourself on the march, Willie," said Askerne, giving him a rough shake. "By Jove! to have to fall in when one should go to sleep--to nod and drowse and dream while tramping on and on, your nose coming every minute down on the tin canteen or the knapsack of the man in front of you! It is miserable work; but what with contract powder that won't explode, ammunition shoes warranted not to last, diseased bullocks shot while at fever heat and eaten half raw, we are little likely to beat the French, either in fighting or marching." "Unless, like them, we learn to hang an occasional commissary or contractor," said old Middleton, as he sprang with agility on his horse; and the regiment formed open column of companies in the dark, for daybreak was yet an hour distant. CHAPTER VII. RETROGRESSION.