From the wine-house they adjourned to the Prado, where they strolled about under the shade of the rich orange-trees, or lounged on the wooden sofas. De Mesmai smoked a cigar, and kept up, to use a camp phrase, a running fire of words, and laughed heartily at his own jokes; while Ronald listened in silence, and surveyed with feelings of mortification the regiment on its evening parade, from which for the present he was excluded. "Fine fellows, these bare-kneed Celts of yours, Monsieur Stuart," said De Mesmai, as he knocked the ashes from his cigar. "A goodly row of most captivating brown legs they have. How pretty the waving tartan seemed, as the corps wheeled from open column into line. They call forth the admiration of the ladies too,—the delightful creatures! Really, ’pon honour, I think they peep more at the Scottish plaids and plumes, than at this smart uniform and bright steel bourgoinette of mine. A gallant chevalier your colonel is. He gives his orders with that firm tone of authority which marks the true, the bold-hearted soldier, and one born to command. A _soldado_ of most goodly proportions is that long-legged field-officer, who last night bored me to death about Egypt, and his campaigns there. Body o’ the Pope! look at that girl." "Which?" "With the black veil hung over the high comb. What a roguish black eye and most excessively attractive pair of ankles she has! I will speak to her. Ho! _ma princesse_—" "Beware what you do, De Mesmai," interrupted Ronald hastily. "She is a lady, and one of rank evidently, by the lace embroidery on her stomacher and mantilla. Some officers of the 39th are with her, too." "_Diable!_ so I now perceive; and one of your savage Scots chasseurs, I think." "Savage!" repeated Stuart, dubious whether to laugh or frown. "He is an officer of the Highland Light Infantry,—that corps with the tartan trews, and bonnets without feathers. By Jove! ’tis Armstrong; the same officer who cut down poor D’Estouville at Almarez. He is flirting with this young lady, and recks no more of the deadly stroke he gave, than if he had killed a muircock. Let us move on. The Highlanders will march past this way, and I little like to be sitting here like an out-cast from them,—and without my sword too, by heavens!"