ext place we stop at? You must
know," said he, in a confidential tone, "I left an important matter
sadly neglected in Elvas. It is my lord's business, and I would be
sorry to come to blame in it. Whatever it cost, I must send a letter
there without delay, and while I write, you must find man and
horse. He shall have two guineas the minute the job is done. Is that
enough?"

"Quite enough," the groom answered, gravely, while his companion
turned away his head to conceal a grin. "I know something about riding
express, and for two guineas I will find you a man to ride to Elvas
and back in double quick time."

"You shall have a guinea for yourself, if you prove a man of your
word, and send my letter in time."

"If I fail you, may your guinea choke me, for I mean to melt it down
into good liquor," said the groom.

"And I'll help him to drink your health in it, Mr. Moodie," said the
other man. "For a guinea's worth of liquor might choke a better man
than Tom."

With hope renewed, Moodie rode on after his mistress. On coming up
with them, he heard L'Isle and Lady Mabel talking Portuguese. To while
away an idle hour, she was taking a lesson in that tongue. This
annoyed Moodie, who suspected some plot, when they thus kept him in
the dark. But he consoled himself with the hope that his important
dispatch would yet be in time to prevent mischief, and he once more
refreshed himself with his bottle, being now well convinced of its
medicinal virtue.

Lady Mabel was in high spirits, talking and laughing, and occasionally
looking round at Moodie, enjoying the deception she had put upon
him. Her success in bewildering him, now tempted her to quiz L'Isle,
and she abruptly said: "It must have been a violent fit of patriotism
and martial ardor that made you abandon the thought of taking orders,
and quit Oxford for the camp."

"I never had any thought of taking orders," answered L'Isle, surprised
and annoyed, he knew not exactly why. "I only lived with those who
had."

"You lived with them to some purpose, then, and have, too, a great
aptitude for the church."

"It is not my vocation," said L'Isle, laconically.

"You have only not yet found it out. But it is not too late," she
persisted. "Your case, my good man-slaying Christian, is not like
Gonsalvo's of Cordova, who had but a remnant of his days in which to
play the penitent monk. These wars will soon be over, and you are
still young. If you cannot make a general, you may be