Amid that confidence which is inspired by a borrachio-skin of good Valdepenas, varied by stiff brandy-and-water, Quentin, so far as he deemed necessary or right, made "a clean breast of it" to his friends and comrades, and detailed anew his adventures on the road from Herreruela and at the Villa de Maciera. Though he was complimented by Warriston and Askerne, whose praise was of value, there were not a few, such as Monkton, Colville, Ensigns Colyear, Boyle and others, who laughed immoderately, and voted him "a downright spoon"--wishing "such jolly good-luck had been theirs as to have a dazzling Castilian chucking herself at their heads." "Yes, damme," said Monkton, "I should have had another story to tell; though, certainly, Kennedy, your Dulcinea did not 'let concealment like a worm i' the bud'--how does the quotation end? Now, Pimple, are you going to keep that blessed borrachio-skin all night? Why, man, you have squeezed it till it has become like a half-empty bagpipe." Elsewhere we have mentioned that, after reading the famous newspaper paragraph which made such a commotion among the secluded household at Rohallion, the quartermaster offered to write to Quentin, and that Flora gave him a tiny note to enclose in his letter. So it was on this night, when returning from Monkton's billet to his own, with a head none of the clearest, after talking a vast deal, smoking cigars and drinking the country wine, that Quentin was startled--completely sobered, in fact--by his servant placing in his hand a letter, and saying briefly that "the mail had come up that evening from the rear," which meant from Lisbon. This letter was covered by such a multitude of post-marks that some time elapsed before Quentin--all unused to receive such documents--could bring himself to examine the contents; nor, in his mute astonishment, did he do so, until he had fully deciphered the address, which was in old John Girvan's hand, and the seal, an antiquated button of the 25th Foot, with the number, of course, reversed. Every word seemed like _a voice from home_, and all the past--faces, forms, scenes, and places, came like a living and moving panorama on his memory. Then, almost giddy with delight, a heart tremulous with anxiety, and eyes that grew moist--so moist, indeed, that for some seconds he could see no more than that the letter was dated more than a month back, Quentin was striving to read the square, old-fashioned writing of his early friend, when something dropped from between the pages--a tiny note, sealed by blue wax--the crest a hare _sejant_, the cognisance of the Warrenders. Excited anew, he opened this with extreme care but tremulous haste. It was a single sheet of note-paper, on which two words were written, in a hand he knew right well--_From Flora_--and in it was a valuable ring, studded with precious stones.