They presently got out of the city; but, to Moodie’s displeasure, by a gate opposite to that by which they had entered it.  He was still more annoyed, when, on coming to a place where the road branched into two, the commissary took a brief though kindly leave of his wife and friends, and, followed by his man, galloped off to the right, on a professional chase after grain and bullocks.

L’Isle was surprised to find himself regretting the loss of their fellow-traveler.  He had found him, always remembering that he was a commissary, a very good fellow; for we can find some good in every man, if we take the trouble to look for it; and Shortridge was one who, after taking care of himself, was quite willing to take care of other people.

But L’Isle’s regret was nothing to Moodie’s, whose habits of life led him to appreciate the nature and importance of the commissary’s official duties.  He valued him as a practical, responsible man of business, with no foolish fancies about him.  He admired the summary way in which he had disposed of the extortionate inn-keeper, and now looked after him almost in despair; for he did not think the party left behind by any means fit to take care of themselves or each other.  L’Isle he did not understand and mistrusted, doubting whether he were merely idly rambling about the country, or harbored some covert design, the object of which was Lady Mabel, of course.

“My Lady,” said he, riding up beside her, and speaking in an under tone, “this is not the road we traveled coming from Elvas.  Where are you going to now?”

Remarking his dissatisfied air, and the look of suspicion he cast on L’Isle, she answered, with provoking coolness, “Oh, we are merely rambling about; any road is the right one, if it but leads to a new place.”

“But now the commissary has left us, do you not mean to go back to Elvas?”

“In returning we will make a detour.”

“And what is a detour?” asked Moodie, with a puzzled air.

“It means going back the longest way.  We have plenty of leisure, for the campaign will not open directly.”

“I would like to know what you, my Lady, have to do with the opening of the campaign?”

“A great deal, and so have you; for, as soon as it does open, you and I must march back to Scotland.”

“I wish it were to-morrow,” said Moodie.

“It will not be to-morrow, or to-morrow’s morrow,” Lady Mabel answered.  “Meanwhile, we will see all that is to be seen, and learn all that is to be known.  Even you, by crowding and packing more closely your old notions, may find room for some new ones.”

“I am too old to learn,” said Moodie, sullenly.

“Too wise, you mean,” she said, breaking off from him.  “Come, Mrs. Shortridge, let me tear you from this barren spot, to which grief has rooted you on parting from the commissary;” and, seizing that lady’s mule by the rein, Lady Mabel led her, as if helpless from sorrow, after the guide, who had taken the left-hand road.