’That royal throne of kings, that sceptred isle,
   That earth of majesty, that seat of Mars,
   That other Eden, demi-paradise;
   That fortress, built by nature for herself,
   Against infection, and the hand of war;
   That happy breed of men, that little world;
   That precious stone set in the silver sea,
   Which serves it in the office of a wall,
   Or as a moat defensive to a house,
   Against the envy of less happier lands.’

England against the world!” he exclaimed breaking off his quotation, in his enthusiasm, and laying his hand on his sword.

“You are certainly a patriot,” said Lady Mabel, “if any amount of national prejudice can make patriotism.  But yours is very like the cockney’s, who despised all the world, beyond the sound of Bow bells.  As to the fortress isle. (Let me warn you to keep it well garrisoned against surprise.) I believe there is an obscure little corner of it called Scotland, which both you and the poet have forgotten.”

“I merely used England in a figure of speech,” said L’Isle, “putting a part for the whole.”

“I will not tolerate your figure of speech, as disparaging to old Scotland,” she said.  “But for us Scots—­”

“Us Scots!” L’Isle exclaimed.  “Why, it was but yesterday you told me how much you had angered Moodie by calling yourself an English woman.”

“What of that?  I would have you know that I have two sides to my natural character.  I claim the right to present my Scotch or English side at will, and then you cannot see the other.”

Fort San Christoval, on this side of the Guadiana, rose higher and higher before them.  Gazing on Badajoz and its castle on the other side of the river, L’Isle thought of the failures before it, and of the price in blood at which it had been bought at last.  “We are not always successful in our sieges—­at times undertaking them rashly, without the means of carrying them on.  The sabre, and bayonet, unaided, take few walled towns.  They need the help of Cranfield’s art, and he cannot work without his tools.”

“But we always beat the French in the field,” said Lady Mabel.

“Always,” said L’Isle.  “There has been no instance of a real British army being beaten by a French one.”

“None of late years,” said Lady Mabel.  “To find a victory over us they have to go as far back in the last century as Fontenoy.”

“That is not a fair instance,” said L’Isle eagerly.  “We lost that battle chiefly through the backwardness of our Dutch allies; and Marshal Saxe, who was no Frenchman, but a German, beat us chiefly by aid of the valor of the Irish regiments in the French pay.”

“That alters the case,” said Lady Mabel; “but were we not beaten some years before that, at Almansa, here in Spain?”

“That instance is still more unfair,” exclaimed L’Isle.  “Our Peninsular allies ran away, while we fought their battle.  Still, though the enemy were two to our one, the result might have been different.  But the French had an English general, the Duke of Berwick, to win the battle for them, and we had a French commander, DeRuvigny, whom Dutch William had made Earl of Galway, to lose it for us.”