under
ever-blue and cloudless skies, Gibraltar realised more fully that war
was close at hand. Lying in the high road to the East, it saw daily
the armed strength of England sweep proudly by. Now a squadron of
men-of-war: not the hideous, shapeless ironclad of to-day, but the
traditional three-decker, with its tiers of snarling teeth and its
beauty of white-bellying canvas and majestic spar. Now a troopship
with its consorts, two, or three, or more, tightly packed with their
living cargo--whole regiments of red-coated soldiers on their way to
Malta and beyond.

Such sights as these kept the garrison--friends and comrades of those
bound eastward--in a state of constant high-pitched excitement. At
first, forbidden by strict quarantine, there was no communication
between the sea and the shore, but all day long there were crowds of
idlers ready to line the sea-wall and greet every ship that came in
close enough with hearty repeated cheers. When the vexatious
health-rules were relaxed, and troopships landed some of their
passengers, there was endless fraternisation, eager discussion of
coming operations, and unlimited denunciation of the common foe.

Members of the garrison itself were, of course, frantically jealous of
all who had the better luck to belong to the expeditionary force. That
they were not under orders for the East was the daily burden of
complaint in every barrack-room and guard-house upon the Rock. The
British soldier is an inveterate grumbler; he quarrels perpetually
with his quarters, his food, his clothing, and his general want of
luck. Just now the bad luck of being refused a share in an arduous
campaign, with its attendant chances of hardships, sufferings, perhaps
a violent death, made every soldier condemned to remain in safety at
Gibraltar discontented and sore at heart.

"No orders for us by the last mail, Hyde," said a young sergeant of
the Royal Picts, as he walked briskly up to the entrance of the
Waterport Guard.

A tall, well-grown, clean-limbed young fellow of twenty-four or five:
one who prided himself on being a smart soldier, and fully deserved
the name. He was admirably turned out; his coatee with wings, showing
that he belonged to one of the flank companies, fitted him to
perfection; the pale blue trousers, the hideous fashion of the day,
for which Prince Albert was said to be responsible, were carefully
cut; his white belts were beautifully pipe-clayed, and the use of
pipe-clay was