"Powder and pluck?" "No--rum and ros-bif--ha, ha! _Au revoir_--we shall meet again," and putting spurs to his horse, Ribeaupierre, keeping his white handkerchief still displayed, rode across to his own lines, turning, however, repeatedly to kiss his hand, as his horse caracoled along. Relieved from his post, Quentin rejoined the main body of the picquet in the grove of trees, where he remained apart from the men and full of thought; for though his self-esteem was somewhat piqued on learning that Isidora had so easily forgot him, he was greatly pleased to hear of her safety, and hoped that the circumstance, when known, would relieve him from the hostility of Baltasar and his ragamuffins, of whom he not unnaturally had a constant dread. These ideas were mingled with something of amusement--that the brother-in-law of Baltasar, the most ferocious of Spanish patriots, should be a Frenchman! Just as the picquets rejoined their regiments, prior to the whole division moving from Avila, Rowland Askerne called Quentin aside, and, with a face expressive of extreme concern, said-- "I wish to speak particularly with you, Quentin--there is evidently something most unpleasant on the tapis." "Regarding what--or who?" "You, my friend." "Me--how--in what way?" asked Quentin. "Baltasar de Saldos, the guerilla, who has been so long in the rear, wounded, has now joined the division, and has been at the quarters of Sir John Hope in the Bishop's palace." "Surely, that matters nothing to me," said Quentin, with growing anger and alarm. "Listen. I was in the street, speaking with the colonel, when the general, who was bowing out the formidable guerilla, beckoned him, and on their meeting I heard him say-- "'The information just given me, Colonel Crawford, by the guerilla, fully corroborates the character you gave me at Portalegre of that young fellow--what is his name?' "'Kennedy.' "'Ah, yes; you remember?' "'Yes, Sir John,' replied the colonel, turning rather pale, I thought, as he glanced towards me. "'But I have spoken with Major Middleton of yours, and unlike you, he gives him the very highest character. How am I to reconcile these discrepancies?' "Crawford then mumbled I know not what; but it was something about a previous knowledge of you--of old contumacy and insolence unknown to others; then I turned away, as it was alike impossible and improper to listen." These tidings filled Quentin's breast with rage, alarm, and intense mortification. Here was a secret enmity against which there was no contending, bringing with it accusations of which he knew neither the nature nor the name.