When Pat had smoked out his pipe, and found he had no more tobacco to replenish it with, again anathematizing L'Estrange for his nocturnal freaks, he dismounted, and leaning against his charger's side, which proved a capital defence against the cold south-easter that blew chilly over the downs, still white with snow, he actually fell asleep; and in dreamland once more visited his emerald isle, green Erin, and like Campbell's dreaming soldier, hastened to his wife's embrace, and vowed he would leave them no more for a soldier's life! Poor Pat's dream was somewhat rudely broken by the blow of De Vere's whip. Rubbing his eyes he looked round to see his disturber. "Rouse up, you sleepy dog," said the Captain, as his lash again descended--"rouse up and hold the stirrup for me." Mechanically the Irishman obeyed, knowing the Captain of old, and he had the mortification of beholding him firmly seated on his horse, and as soon as L'Estrange was mounted they both set off at full gallop towards Brighton, the Captain telling him he might get back the best way he could, and that a double quick would warm him after his slumbers. "Divil resave 'em for a set of thieves," cried the enraged Paddy, as soon as his tormentor was gone. "A pretty trick to play an honest man--ill luck to 'em both." He then began his solitary plod home over the bleak plains. "An' they niver thought I might be murthered, and not even a dhrap of the rale good stuff to keep the cold out have they left me--ill luck to 'em." With such kindly expressions Pat Malony cheered his way, and after a four mile trudge, reached the barracks at past three in the morning; and as he could not, or would not give an account of himself he was placed in guard for absence without leave, until L'Estrange released him from his prison and comforted the son of Erin's offended pride by a sovereign, for which piece of generosity he was rewarded by as many blessings as he had received cursings the previous night, and assured of Pat's willingness to endure fifty such nightly perambulations. CHAPTER IX. "Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole The fire, that through those silken lashes In darkest glances seems to roll, From eyes that cannot hide their flashes; And as along her bosom steal In lengthened flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, And curled to give her neck caresses."--_Byron._ About a week after this nocturnal adventure, Captain de Vere might have been seen trotting along the King's road with an orderly behind him. He reined his coal-black charger before a handsome mansion, and dismounting rung the bell--it was answered by a footman in the De Vere livery. "Is my brother, the Earl, at home?" "He is not, sir--but walk in, Captain de Vere--my Lord bade me ask you to wait for him--my Lord is at a _levee_, but will be home soon." "Very well, I'll wait;--you fellow," addressing his orderly, "wait for me."