“And his brother; for they are on board Lord Lydstone’s yacht.”

“They!  How many of them?”

“General Wilders has his wife with him, I believe, accompanying him to the East.”

“Old idiot!  Why couldn’t he leave her at home?  Women are in the way at these times.  Soldiers have no business with wives.”

“That’s why you never married, I suppose?”

Hyde did not answer his question, but got up and left his comrade abruptly, to re-enter the guard-room.

CHAPTER VI.

ON DANGEROUS GROUND.

The Arcadia, Lord Lydstone’s yacht, was a fine three-masted schooner of a couple of hundred tons.  She was lying far out in the bay, amidst a crowd of shipping of every kind—­coal-hulks, black and grimy; H.M.S. Samarang, receiving-ship, and home of the captain of the port; British vessels, steamers and sailing-ships, of every rig; foreign craft of every aspect native to its waters:  zebecques, faluchas, and polaccas, with their curved spars and heavy lateen sails.

A fleet of small boats surrounded the yacht, native boats of curious build, and manned by dark-skinned natives of the Rock, in nondescript attire—­a noisy, pushing, quarrelsome lot, eager to do business, gesticulating wildly, and jabbering loudly in many strange tongues.  Here was a pure Spaniard, with a red sash round his waist, and a velvet cap, round as a cartwheel, on his head, with a boatful of vegetables and early fruit.  There was a grave and sedate Moor, in green turban and white flowing robes, with an assortment of gold-braided slippers and large brass trays.  Next a Maltese milk-seller, in scanty garments, nothing but short canvas trousers and a shirt, who had come with cans full of goats’-milk from the herds he kept on the barren slopes of the Rock.  Not far off was the galley of the health-officer, with a crew of “scorpion” boatmen in neat white jackets and straw hats.

On the deck of the yacht, under an awning—­for the spring sun already beat down hotly at noon—­were the owner and his guests.  Lord Lydstone, cigar in mouth, lounged lazily upon a heap of rugs and cushions at the feet of Mrs. Wilders, who took her ease luxuriantly in a comfortable cane arm-chair.

Blanche Cyprienne, Countess of St. Clair, had changed little since her marriage.  Her beauty had gained rather than lost; her manner was more commanding, her look more haughty.  Her fine eyes flashed insolently, or were veiled in lazy disdain, and her voice spoke scornfully or drawled with careless contempt, according to her mood.

“So that is the Rock—­the great Rock of Gibraltar,” she was saying.  “What an extraordinary-looking place!”

“You will say so, Countess, when you get on shore,” said Lord Lydstone.

“Is there anything really to see?” she asked.  “Is it worth the trouble of landing?”

“Why, of course!  I thought it was all settled.  The general sent some hours ago to say he proposed to pay his respect to the Governor.  You cannot help yourself now.”