“In spite of its hardships,” said Lady Mabel, “it has been so agreeable to me, that I would have it last a week longer.  As an escort, interpreter, and cicerone, Colonel L’Isle has no rival.  He has, too, filled the commissary’s place so well, that we have suffered nothing from your good man’s desertion.”

The pleasure Lady Mabel expressed, and her frank admission that she wished the journey longer, delighted L’Isle.  He longed to tell her that he was ever at her command as companion, guardian, and guide on any journey, however long.  But no—­he must not say that.  He had no thoughts of matrimony—­at least, just now.  A remote prospect did indeed float before his eyes, in which he saw himself having outlived this war, and attained the rank of Major-General, returning home to find Lady Mabel still lovely and still free to listen to a lover’s suit.  This was but a bright vista of the future, hemmed in and overhung by many a dark contingency, a glowing picture in an ebony frame.

The character of the country underwent a change as they rode on.  Sloping downward toward the Guadiana, over a succession of hills which concealed the descent, the soil became more fertile, but was scarcely more cultivated than in the region which they had just left behind them.  The heaths and broom plants now gave place to a variety of evergreen shrubs.  Though the forest trees had vanished centuries ago, the prospect was often shut out by the thickets that overspread the country.  An occasional spot of open ground indicated some attempts at cultivation, but they saw few peasants, and but one village seated on a hill, until passing a wretched hamlet, they reach the bank of a brook.  The shade of some trees, already in full leaf, in this sheltered spot, tempted them to make here their noonday halt.

Seating herself on the fern and moss at the foot of an old mulberry-tree that overhung the little stream, Lady Mabel pointed out to her companions, that the trees around them were all of the same kind.

“They were doubtless planted here,” said L’Isle, “when the silk culture throve in this country, a branch of industry, which, with too many others, has almost died out.  Civil disorder and foreign war have been fatal to it.  The Spaniards have made Alemtejo their highroad in every invasion of Portugal; and the disasters of late years have completed the ruins of this frontier, so long a debatable land.  The country around, is, for the most part, a heath-covered waste, or a wilderness of brushwood; here the silkworm has perished, the peasant’s hand is idle, and the amoreira stands with unplucked leaves.”

“The better for us,” said Mrs. Shortridge; “we need its thickest shade.”

A solitary stork, by the rivulet, was engaged in that gentle sport which Isaac Walton assures us, is so favorable to tranquil meditation.  Deep in reverie, the philosopher seemed not to heed their presence.  For a time, he stood gravely on one leg, then with a few stately strides, drew nearer to them.  They were commenting on his sedate air, and disregard for man’s presence, when Moodie came and sat down within ear-shot of them.  The bird now raised his head and gave them a searching look.  Then bending back his long neck, he uttered a dissatisfied chatter with his snapping beak, and taking wing, sought a sequestered part of the stream, remote from the intruders.