tten, my lord, the state of
the army at the end of the campaign. Little has yet been done to bring
this brigade up to the mark, and little will be achieved by it in the
coming campaign in its present state. Now is the time to check the
licentious spirit by making some severe examples."

"I will do no such thing," said Lord Strathern, coolly. "The occasion
does not call for it. We will be in the field shortly, and want all
the bayonets we can muster. The brigade is too weak to spare men from
the ranks to put into irons."

"I did not suppose," said L'Isle, "that the warning my Lord Wellington
gave us not long since, would be so soon forgotten."

L'Isle alluded to the circular letter Wellington had addressed to his
subordinates, at the end of the campaign, in which he had politely
dubbed half of his officers idlers, whose habitual neglect of duty
suffered their commands to run into ruffianism. Perhaps their
commander was suffering under a fit of indigestion when he wrote it.
It certainly caused a general heartburning among his officers. Lord
Strathern, among others, had found it hard to digest, and now angrily
denounced it unjust.

"Well, my lord," said L'Isle, with more zeal than discretion, "by the
end of the campaign our men may be in a state to be improved by a
touch of discipline from _Julian Sanchez_ or _Carlos d'Espana_, unless
they reject them as too much like banditti!"

"And I am captain of the banditti!" exclaimed Lord Strathern, in a
sudden rage. "As you do not _yet_ command the brigade, let me beg you,
sir, to go and look after your own people, and keep them up to the
mark, lest they become banditti!"

"I always obey orders, my lord," said L'Isle, with suddenly assumed
composure; "I will go and look after my own regiment, and let the rest
of the brigade march"--

"Where, sir?" thundered Lord Strathern.

"Their own road," L'Isle answered, and bowed himself out of the
room. He walked sedately through the long corridor that led to the
entrance of this monastic house, then, yielding to some violent
impulse, sprang into his saddle, and plunging his spurs into his
horse's flanks, dashed out of the court and through the olive grounds
at a killing pace. His astonished groom stared at him for a moment,
then followed with emulous speed. As L'Isle turned suddenly into the
high road, a voice called out: "Don't ride me down; I'm no Frenchman!"
and he saw Colonel Bradshawe quickly but coolly press his ambling cob