“True,” rejoined the Baronet, who had already rallied from the momentary depression of his spirits, “he hit me devilish hard, I confess, and was disposed to display more of the commanding officer than quite suits my ideas of the service.  His words were as caustic as his looks; and could both have pierced me to the quick, there was no inclination on his part wanting.  By my soul I could. ...but I forgive him.  He is the father of my friend:  and for that reason will I chew the cud of my mortification, nor suffer, if possible, a sense of his unkindness to rankle at my heart.  At all events, Blessington, my mind is made up, and resign or exchange I certainly shall the instant I can find a decent loop-hole to creep out of.”

Sir Everard fancied the ear of his captain was alone listening to these expressions of his feeling, or in all probability he would not have uttered them.  As he concluded the last sentence, however, he felt his arm gently grasped by one who walked a pace or two silently in their rear.  He turned, and recognised Charles de Haldimar.

“I am sure, Valletort, you will believe how much pained I have been at the severity of my father; but, indeed, there was nothing personally offensive intended.  Blessington can tell you as well as myself it is his manner altogether.  Nay, that although he is the first in seniority after Blackwater, the governor treats him with the same distance and hauteur he would use towards the youngest ensign in the service.  Such are the effects of his long military habits, and his ideas of the absolutism of command.  Am I not right, Blessington?”

“Quite right, Charles.  Sir Everard may satisfy himself his is no solitary instance of the stern severity of your father.  Still, I confess, notwithstanding the rigidity of manner which he seems, on all occasions, to think so indispensable to the maintenance of authority in a commanding officer, I never knew him so inclined to find fault as he is to-night.”

“Perhaps,” observed Valletort, good humouredly, “his conscience is rather restless; and he is willing to get rid of it and his spleen together.  I would wager my rifle against the worthless scalp of the rascal I fired at to-night, that this same stranger, whose asserted appearance has called us from our comfortable beds, is but the creation of his disturbed dreams.  Indeed, how is it possible any thing formed of flesh and blood could have escaped us with the vigilant watch that has been kept on the ramparts?  The old gentleman certainly had that illusion strongly impressed on his mind when he so sapiently spoke of my firing at a shadow.”

“But the gate,” interrupted Charles de Haldimar, with something of mild reproach in his tones,—­“you forget, Valletort, the gate was found unlocked, and that my brother is missing.  He, at least, was flesh and blood, as you say, and yet he has disappeared.  What more probable, therefore, than that this stranger is at once the cause and the agent of his abduction?”