Three months had hardly elapsed, when the 150th Regiment was marching for Calcutta, under orders for embarkation for England.
The sun was shining brightly on the ocean, and the houses of Cape Town. Isabel sat at her window looking across the sea, watching the white sails of a large ship, which with a pyramid of canvas, rising over a dark hull, was standing right for the anchorage. It was her favourite spot, and much of her time had been spent at that window, looking over the sea. Many a vessel had she watched, driving through the waves, while she speculated on the hopes and fears which attached themselves to those whose home lay within the dark hulls. Some had been coming from Europe, bound for far-away lands; others returning, but all bearing, doubtless, their living cargoes, and their freights of happiness and of misery.
The successes of the British army had been known, but no news had arrived in the colony for some time, and so Isabel looked musingly over the sea, and the stately ship came on letting fly her royals, and next the topgallant sails were handed, her topsails settled down on the caps, her lower sails hung in the brails, and soon a heavy splash was heard, as the anchor dropped into the water, and a crowd of shore boats surrounded the ship.
There was nothing in the scene that she had not watched daily, and now she remained at her window, sunk in reverie. A gentle breeze was blowing, the sun was shining brightly, and her book had dropped from her hand. Suddenly her ear caught a quick step on the stairs, which sent the red blood mantling under the clear olive skin, the fluttering heart beat wildly, and the net-work of blue veins seemed filled to bursting. Isabel rose, her hands clasped together, her eyes fixed on the door. It opened, and, with a cry of happiness, the next moment she found herself clasped in her husband’s arms.
Sobbing with delight, Isabel raised her head, and her eye caught the glitter of that cross, the noblest decoration the world can give.
“Where, oh, where did you win that, Enrico mio?” she asked, pushing the clustering hair from her eyes, and resting her two hands on her husband’s shoulder.
“On the battle-field of Cawnpore,” replied the soldier, “from the hand of the bravest of the brave.”
Isabel’s head sunk on the speaker’s breast, resting on the cross given only for deeds of high daring and devoted courage, and she sobbed heavily, not from sorrow but joy.
A knock came to the door. Encircling Isabel’s waist with his arm, Hughes bid the new comer enter, and Major Curtis stepped into the room.
“Captain Edmonds wants to know—” he said hastily, and then stopped abruptly.
“Allow me to present you, Curtis, to my Kaffir bride,” said Colonel Hughes, laughing.
That night Isabel was on board the “Larkins” hired transport, surrounded by her husband’s men, and his comrades, tried and proved trusty on many an occasion, and when the morning sun tipped the ocean waves with its rising beams, the gallant ship, with every sail set, and a leading wind, could just be made out from land, as she steered her course straight for the white chalk cliffs of England.
The End.