The bandsman ceased speaking, for he had to take his part again, as the rear of the new regiment marched past with the mounted officers. Then followed an ambulance waggon, the water-tub, two or three baggage waggons, and half a dozen men who had fallen out on the march, all of whom Dick saw as if it were part of a dream, which lasted, in a confused way, as he and his companion joined their own regiment, took their place at the head, and returned to their own quarters. "Getting all right, again?" said the clarionet-player, as they stood together in the barrack yard waiting to be dismissed. "What is it? What's the matter?" asked Wilkins, sourly. "Smithson sick, sir," was the reply. The bandmaster looked at his principal flute curiously, but said nothing. The next minute they were dismissed, and Dick longed in vain for a place where he could be alone, the only approach to it being the open window, where, after the customary change of uniform and wash and clean, he sat gazing out at the sky, but seeing no bright silvery clouds--nothing but the face of that young officer and the old ruins down by the flooded river; for it seemed to Dick Smithson that--in spite of what had been written about midnight and the witching hour--he had seen a ghost, and in the broad daylight, too. He tried to cast the idea from him again and again, but that face would return, wonderful in its resemblance, and at last a painful, feverish fit came on; for the countenance he had that day gazed upon, and which had impressed him so painfully, brought up all the old life which he had tried so hard and successfully to forget. "It's like a punishment to me, for trying to forget that which I ought always to bear in mind," he said at last, with a sigh. "How horrible! and how strange that two people could be so much alike!" Dick played with the band in the mess-room that evening, and one or two of his comrades told him he looked ill; but he laughed it off, and tried to make them believe that the little fit of weariness was a mere nothing. But his face told a different tale, and that night, when he went to his bed, sleep refused to come; and to the accompaniment of his comrades' heavy breathing--that being the most charitable term that can be applied to it--he once more went over his old life at Mr Draycott's, from his first entering the great coach's establishment up to the morning he had left. At last sleep came--a miserable, feverish slumber, from which he was aroused by the _reveille_. "There," he said to himself. "I shall be all right now," as he took his dripping head out of the bowl of cold water, and felt refreshed by the scrub he gave himself; but somehow he did not feel right. His head burned, and he was glad to get out in the open air, in the hope that a little exercise would clear his brain and drive away the cobweb-like fancies which seemed to interfere with its working.