Weaned forth by the generous sunshine, the
burgeoning of vine and fig, of olive and cork went on apace, and the
skeletons of trees which a fortnight since had stood gaunt and bare
were already fleshed in tender green.
>From the window of this fine conventual house on the heights of
Monsanto, above the suburb of Alcantara, where the Adjutant-General
had taken up his quarters, Captain Tremayne stood a moment considering
the panorama spread to his gaze, from the red-brown roofs of Lisbon
on his left - that city which boasted with Rome that it was built
upon a cluster of seven hills - to the lines of embarkation that
were building about the fort of St. Julian on his left. Then he
turned, facing again the spacious, handsome room with its heavy,
semi-ecclesiastical furniture, and Sir Terence, who, hunched in his
chair at the ponderously carved black writing-table, scowled fiercely
at nothing.
"What are you going to do, sir?" he inquired.
Sir Terence shrugged impatiently and heaved himself up in his chair.
"Nothing," he growled.
"Nothing?"
The interrogation, which seemed almost to cover a reproach, irritated
the adjutant.
"And what the devil can I do?" he rapped.
"You've pulled Dick out of scrapes before now.
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