As a matter of fact the Count had been at Monsanto for the past
hour, the first half of which he had spent most agreeably on the
terrace with the ladies. He had spoken so eulogistically of the
genius of Lord Wellington and the valour of the British soldier,
and, particularly-of the Irish soldier, that even Sylvia's
instinctive distrust and dislike of him had been lulled a little
for the moment.
"And they must prevail," he had exclaimed in a glow of enthusiasm,
his dark eyes flashing. "It is inconceivable that they should ever
yield to the French, although the odds of numbers may lie so
heavily against them."
"Are the odds of numbers so heavy?" said Lady O'Moy in surprise,
opening wide those almost childish eyes of hers.
"Alas! anything from three to five to one. Ah, but why should we
despond on that account?" And his voice vibrated with renewed
confidence. "The country is a difficult one, easy to defend, and
Lord Wellington's genius will have made the best of it. There are,
for example, the fortifications at Torres Vedras."
"Ah yes! I have heard of them. Tell me about them, Count."
"Tell you about them, dear lady? Shall I carry perfumes to the
rose? What can I tell you that you do not know so much better than
myself?"
"Indeed, I know nothing.
Pages:
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188