morning.

"Where am I?" was my first question to myself, as I continued to look from
side to side, unable to collect my scattered senses.

One word sufficed to recall me to myself, as I heard Power's voice, from
without, call out, "Charley! O'Malley, I say! Come down here!"

I hurriedly threw on my clothes and went to the door.

"Well, Charley, I've been put in harness rather sooner than I expected.
Here's old Douglas has been sitting up all night writing despatches; and
I must hasten on to headquarters without a moment's delay. There's work
before us, that's certain; but when, where, and how, of that I know
nothing. You may expect the route every moment; the French are still
advancing. Meanwhile I have a couple of commissions for you to execute.
First, here's a packet for Hammersley; you are sure to meet him with the
regiment in a day or two. I have some scruples about asking you this; but,
confound it! you're too sensible a fellow to care--" Here he hesitated;
and as I colored to the eyes, for some minutes he seemed uncertain how to
proceed. At length, recovering himself, he went on: "Now for the other.
This is a most loving epistle from a poor devil of a midshipman, written
last night by a tallow candle, in the cock-pit, containing vows of eternal
adoration and a lock of hair. I promised faithfully to deliver it myself;
for the 'Thunderer' sails for Gibraltar next tide, and he cannot go ashore
for an instant. However, as Sir Arthur's billet may be of more importance
than the reefer's, I must intrust its safe keeping to your hands. Now,
then, don't look so devilish sleepy, but seem to understand what I am
saying. This is the address: 'La Senhora Inez da Silviero, Rua Nuova,
opposite the barber's.' You'll not neglect it. So now, my dear boy, till
our next meeting, _adios!_"

"Stop! For Heaven's sake, not so fast, I pray! Where's the street?"

"The Rua Nuova. Remember Figaro, my boy. _Cinque perruche_."

"But what am I to do?"

"To do! What a question! Anything; everything. Be a good diplomate. Speak
of the torturing agony of the lover, for which I can vouch. The boy is only
fifteen. Swear that he is to return in a month, first lieutenant of the
'Thunder Bomb,' with intentions that even Madame Dalrymple would approve."

"What nonsense," said I, blushing to the eyes.

"And if that suffice not, I know of but one resource."

"Which is?"

"Make love to her yourself. Ay, even so. Don't look so confoundedly
vineg