d green border."

"I wonder where he got it?" said the footman.

"He brought them out with him from home," said Tom, as if he were in
all his master's secrets, "for his love-letters to the Portuguese
ladies--but never met with any worth writing love-letters to. And,
now, my lads, hinder me no longer, I must ride and run till this be
delivered to my lady, and your mistress, that is to be." He was soon
in the saddle, and when there, rode as if carrying the news, that a
French division, having surprised the dreamy Spaniards in Badajoz, was
already fording the Cayo, without meeting even Goring's handful of
dragoons, to check its advance.

L'Isle now hastened to the regimental mess, and, after dining,
loitered there longer than usual, with a convivial set, until it was
late enough to visit Lady Mabel.

He found her alone, in her drawing-room; her father being still at
table, with some companions, the murmur of whose voices and laughter
now and then reached L'Isle's ears.

"Lieutenant Goring, who is down stairs," said Lady Mabel, "has been
amusing us at dinner with his version of our adventure at the ford of
the Cayo; and a very good story he makes of it, giving some rich
samples of Captain Hatton's polyglot eloquence. He, alone, seems not
to have been in the dark; and saw all, and more than all, that
occurred--nor does he forget you in the picture. But, papa cannot see
the wit of it at all."

"_Burlas de manos, burlas de villanos_. There seldom is wit in
practical jokes," said L'Isle; "but there was certainly more wit than
wisdom in this."

"By-the-bye," said Lady Mabel, "our excursion yesterday has procured
me a new correspondent. You will be astonished to hear who he is, and
at the style in which he writes."

"Indeed!" said L'Isle, with heightening color. "I hope he writes on an
agreeable topic, and in a suitable style?"

"You shall judge for yourself," said Lady Mabel. "But the
grandiloquence of the epistle, worthy of Captain Don Alonzo Melendez
himself, calls not for reading, but recitation. Do you sit here as
critic, while I take my stand in the middle of the room, and give it
utterance with all the elocution and pathos I can muster. You must
know that this epistle I hold in my hand, is addressed to me by no
less a personage than the river-god of the Guadiana, who, contrary to
all my notions of mythology, proves to be a gentleman, and not a
lady." And, in a slightly mock-heroic tone, she began to recite it: