.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 54919
   :PG.Title: The Romance of War, Volume 2 (of 3)
   :PG.Released: 2017-06-15
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: James Grant
   :DC.Title: The Romance of War, Volume 2 (of 3)
              or, The Highlanders in Spain
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1846
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE ROMANCE OF WAR, VOLUME 2
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      THE ROMANCE OF WAR:

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      OR,

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      THE HIGHLANDERS IN SPAIN

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      BY

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      JAMES GRANT, ESQ.

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      *Late 62nd Regiment.*

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      "In the garb of old Gaul, with the fire of old Rome,
      From the heath-covered mountains of Scotia we come;
      Our loud-sounding pipe breathes the true martial strain,
      And our hearts still the old Scottish valour retain."
      \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ *Lt.-Gen. Erskine.*

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      IN THREE VOLUMES.

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      VOL. II.

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      LONDON:
      HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,
      GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
      1846.

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      LONDON:
      PRINTED BY MAURICE AND CO., HOWFORD BUILDINGS,
      FENCHURCH STREET.

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   CONTENTS

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   Chapter

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I.  `Castello Branco`_
II.  `The Major's Story`_
III.  `Another Night at Merida`_
IV.  `The Out-picquet`_
V.  `The Flag of Truce`_
VI.  `Almarez`_
VII.  `D'Estouville`_
VIII.  `Catalina`_
IX.  `The Matador`_
X.  `El Convento de Santa Cruz`_
XI.  `A Single Combat`_
XII.  `The Curate's Story`_
XIII.  `An Arrest`_
XIV.  `De Mesmai`_
XV.  `The Heights of Albuera.  The Cross of Santiago`_
XVI.  `The March to Toledo`_





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.. _`CASTELLO BRANCO`:

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   THE ROMANCE OF WAR.

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   CHAPTER I.

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   CASTELLO BRANCO.

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..

   |  "Yet since thou wilt an idle tale of mine,
   |  Take one which scarcely is of worth enough
   |  To give or to withhold.  Our time creeps on;
   |  Fancy grows colder, as the silvery hair
   |  Tells the advancing winter of our life:
   |  But if it be of worth enough to please,
   |  That worth it owes to her who set the task;
   |  If otherwise, the fault rests with the author."
   |                            *Macduff's Cross.—Prelude.*

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"Well, Ronald, my *bon camarado*, and so you
are really here, and in safety?" said Macdonald
as he came up at the head of his sub-division.
"Quite well now, I perceive.  You received my
letter from your servant, of course?"

"Yes.  I have a thousand strange adventures
to tell you of; but I will reserve them for the halt,
which I suppose will be at the castle of Zagala.
But meanwhile, let me hear the regimental news."

"Defer that till the halt also,—talking is dry
work.  A few rank and file were knocked on the
head at Fuente del Maistre; but the officers, you
may see, are all present.  We feared you were on
your route for France, when we heard that
Dombrouski's dragoons were in Merida."

"A daring deed it was, for a handful of men to
advance thus."

"Daring indeed!"

"But then they were Poles,—and the Poles are
no common troops.  Sad work, however, they
have made at Merida.  Every shop and house in
the Plaza has been gutted and destroyed."

"More shame to the citizens!  A city containing
five or six thousand inhabitants, should have
made some resistance to so small a party."

"Ay; but the cits here are not like what our
Scottish burghers were two centuries ago,—grasping
axe and spear readily at the slightest alarm.
By Sir Rowland's orders, Thiele, the German
engineer, blew up the Roman bridge, to prevent
D'Erlon from pressing upon part of the 13th, who
form the rear-guard."

"'Twas a pity to destroy so perfect a relic of
antiquity."

"It was dire necessity."

"Did you see any thing of our friends in the
Calle de Guadiana,—the house at the corner of
the Plaza?"

"Ah!  Donna Catalina's residence?  Blushing
again!  Why, no; it was dark, and I was so
fatigued when we marched through the market-place,
that I could not see the house, and Fassifern
is so strict that it is impossible to leave the
ranks.  But I could observe that nearly all the
houses above the piazzas are in ruins.  However,
we have captured nearly every man of the
ravagers.  A glorious-looking old fellow their
commander is,—a French *chef-de-bataillon*,—Monsieur
le Baron de Clappourknuis, as he styles
himself."

"Clappourknuis?  That has a Scottish sort of
sound."

"The name is purely Scottish.  I had a long
conversation with him an hour since.  He is
grandson of the famous John Law of Laurieston,
and brother of the French general, the great
Marquis of Laurieston.[\*]  He takes his title of
Clappourknuis from some little knowes, which
stand between the old castle of Laurieston and
the Frith of Forth.  What joy and enthusiasm
he displayed at sight of our regiment, and the
71st!  '*Ah, mon ami!*' he exclaimed, holding up his
hands.  'Braave Scots,—very superb troupes!'
he added, in his broken English, and the soldiers
gave him a hearty cheer.  He is a true Frenchman
of the old school, and has a peculiar veneration
for Scotland, which is only equalled by his
bitter hatred for England; and all my arguments
were lost in endeavouring to prove to him that
we are one people,—one nation now.  There is
one of the 71st, a relation of the Laurieston
family: I must introduce him to the baron, who
seems to have a great affection for all who come
from the land of his fathers.—A handsome
young man, apparently, this Louis Lisle, our
new sub."

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[\*] To the political or historical reader, the names of the
marquis and his brother will be familiar.  The house of
Laurieston stands within four miles from Edinburgh, on the
south bank of the Forth.

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"Very agreeable you'll find him, I dare say,"
replied Ronald, colouring slightly.

"A smart fellow he is, and will please Fassifern.
His harness is mighty gay and glossy just
now, but a night's bivouacking—by the by, he is
from Perthshire, is he not?"

"Ay, the mountainous part of the country,—my
own native place.  He comes of good family,
and we are old acquaintance."

"Yet you seem to behave very drily to him:
why you have not spoken to him since the corps
came up."

"I have my reasons.  A few words with him
last night—I will tell you afterwards," said
Ronald in confusion.

"Pshaw, Stuart!  You should not dishearten a
young sub, who has just joined, by this sort of
behaviour.  Nothing disgusts one who has recently
left his home with the service, so much as
coldness on the part of those that he considered
his friends.  I shall see it made up—"

"I beg, Macdonald, you will not interfere in this
matter," was Ronald's answer, with a vehemence
that surprised his friend.  "I am aware how I
ought to behave to Mr. Lisle: we must be on
distant terms—for the present at least."

"You are the best judge, of course," said
Macdonald, with some confusion.  "I merely
meant for the best what I said.  I dislike discord
among brother officers."

"I am aware that your intentions were good,—they
always are so, Alister; but change the subject.
How did you like Almendralejo?"

"Not well: a dull place it is, and the dons are
very quarrelsome."

"Ay, I remember your letter mentioning two
brawls with the inhabitants."

"Your servant, Mr. Iverach, and that rogue
Mackie, of your own company, were the heroes
of one."

"I should be glad to hear the story now.  My
servant has often mentioned it, when I had
neither time nor inclination to listen."

"There is an old *abogado* at Almendralejo,"
answered Macdonald, "a fierce old fellow he is,
with bristling moustaches twisted up to his very
ears, and eyes like those of a hawk,—the Senor
Sancho de los Garcionadas the people there call
him for shortness, but he has a name as long as a
Welsh pedigree.  This lawyer dwells, of course,
in one of the best houses in the town, and on him
Iverach and Angus Mackie were billeted.  He
has a daughter, whom I have seen on the Prado,
a fine-looking girl, with regular features, Spanish
eyes, and Spanish ankles,—quite bewitching, in
fact; and although she has not Donna Catalina's
stately and splendid appearance, yet she is plump
as a partridge, and rosy, pretty, and merry as can
be imagined.  Her beauty completely vanquished
the heart of Mackie, on whom she had cast
favourable glances, for he is what Campbell calls
one of the duchess's picked men, (a strapping
Blair-Athole man, from the mountain of Bein
Meadhonaidh).

"A very agreeable correspondence ensued between
them, but how they managed I cannot tell,
as neither knew a word of the other's language,
and Angus speaks more Gaelic than English; so
I suppose they conversed by the eyes instead of
the mouth.

"There is a French writer who exclaims,
'Ah! what eloquence is so powerful as the language
of two charming eyes!'[\*] and very probably
Master Angus (whom I now see trudging away
yonder with his knapsack on) found this to be
the case.  At last the *abogado* began to suspect
what was going on, and his blood boiled up at
the idea that the Scottish private soldier should
have the presumption to address his daughter,
and the treacherous old fox hatched a very nice,
but very cowardly, plan for cutting off poor
Mackie.

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[\*] The author of the "Memoirs of Madame de Maintenon."

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"The Senora Maria he put securely under lock
and key, and despatched a message to her cavalier
that she would expect him that evening after
vespers, sending at the same time a stout ladder of
ropes, with which he was to scale her window.
The plan succeeded to admiration.  The savage
old attorney and some five or six kinsmen,
muffled and masked, lurked in a dark place, grasping
their knives and crucifixes,—for a Spaniard never
thinks he can commit a murder comfortably
without having his crucifix about him: if it
contains a piece of the true cross, so much the
better.  Mackie came to the rendezvous, but
attended by his comrade Iverach, and both had
luckily brought their side arms with them.
Scarcely had the unsuspecting gallant placed his
foot on the first step of the ladder, when the
concealed assassins rushed upon him, dagger in hand,
from their ambush.  The Highlanders drew and
fought manfully with their bayonets, ran two
through the body, and after receiving a few cuts
in return, put the rest to flight; and so the matter
ended for the night.  But a terrible row was
made about it next day.  Cameron's quarters
were besieged by all the alcaldes, alguazils with
their halberts, abogados, and other rogues in the
town, headed by the corregidor, demanding
revenge.  Fassifern made a short matter of it with
them, and desired the guard to drive them out.  I
know not how it might ultimately have ended, if
the route for Villa Franca had not arrived just
then, and put a stop to the affair by our sudden
march.  But since that occurrence I understand
Mackie has not been the same sort of man he
was,—always grave, absorbed, and thoughtful.  I
fear he will give us the slip, and desert.  The old
lawyer's daughter seems to have bewitched him.
He has more than once asked leave to return to
Almendralejo, although he knows that it is now
in possession of the enemy, and that his death is
certain, should he be seen there again."

During the five days of the weary forced march
across the Spanish frontier to the town of Portalagre
(which signifies the 'happy port') in Portugal,
the same distance of manner and reciprocal
coolness, which we have described in a preceding
chapter, subsisted between Ronald Stuart and
young Lisle; and although secretly both longed
to come to some satisfactory, and if possible
a friendly explanation, their Scottish pride and
stubbornness forbad them both alike to make
the first advances towards a reconciliation.  Louis
had written to his sister, but had said nothing of
Ronald, further than that he was well, &c.

At Niza, Ronald parted with Pedro Gomez, who
had accompanied him thus far, but whom he now
despatched to join his troop in a neighbouring
province, giving him in charge a long letter to
Don Alvaro.  The morning the first brigade
entered Niza, they found the greedy inhabitants, on
their approach, busily employed in pulling their
half-ripe oranges, shaking them down from the
trees and carrying them off in baskets with the
utmost expedition, lest some of those soldiers,—soldiers
who were shedding their blood to rescue
the Peninsula from the iron grasp of Napoleon! should
have plucked a few in passing under the
groves.

That night a part of the Highland regiment
were quartered in the convent[\*] of San Miguel,
and great was the surprise of the reverend Padre
José, and the rest of the worthy brotherhood, to
find themselves addressed in pure Latin by
private soldiers, who could not speak either Spanish
or Portuguese.  But to those who know the
cheapness of education at our Scottish village
schools, this will excite little or no wonder.

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[\*] Convent is a term applied indiscriminately, in Spain, to
houses occupied by either monks or nuns.

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Next day the troops entered Castello Branco,
a fortified place, situated on the face of a rugged
mountain a couple of leagues north of the river
Tajo, or Tagus, a city of great importance in
bygone days.  Its streets are narrow, close, and
dirty, like those of all Portuguese towns, where
the refuse of the household lies piled up in front
of the street-door, where lean and ravenous dogs,
ragged mendicants, and starving gitanas contest
the possession of the well-picked bones and
fragments of melons and pumpkins, that lie
mouldering and rotting, breeding flies and vermin
innumerable under the influence of a burning sun.
Water is conveyed to the houses, or *flats*, as in
ancient Edinburgh and Paris, by means of barrels
carried on the backs of men from the public fountains.
The streets are totally destitute of paving,
lamps, or police; and by night the passenger,
unless he goes well armed, is exposed to attacks
of masked footpads, or annoyed by the bands of
hungry dogs which prowl in hundreds about the
streets of every Portuguese town, howling and
yelping for food until one dies, when immediately
it becomes a prey to the rest.

Major Campbell and Stuart, with some of the
officers, were seated in one of the best rooms of
their billet,—the most comfortable posada the
place possessed, and truly the peninsular inns are
like no others that I know of.  As they were in
the days of Miguel Cervantes, so are they still;
in every thing Spain and Portugal are four
hundred years behind Great Britain in the march of
civilization.

In a posada, the lower story, which is always
entered by a large round archway, is kept for the
accommodation of carriages and cattle.  It is
generally one large apartment, like a barn in size,
the whole length and breadth of the building
floored with gravel, and staked at distances with
posts, to which the cattle of travellers are tied
and receive their feed of chopped straw, or of
Indian corn which has become too rotten and
mouldy for the use of human beings.  The whole
fabric is generally ruinous, no repairs being ever
given; the furniture is always old, rotten, and
decayed,—the chairs, beds, &c. being but nests
for myriads of insects, which render guests
sufficiently uncomfortable.  *Sabanas limpitas* (clean
sheets) are a luxury seldom to be had; and
provisions, a thing scarcely to be thought of in a
Spanish inn.  However, as Senor Raphael's posada
was at some distance from the actual seat of war,
it was hoped that his premises would be better
victualled, and he was summoned by the stentorian
voice of Campbell, the house being destitute
of bells.

"Well, Senor de Casa," said the major, as he
stretched himself along half-a-dozen hard-seated
chairs to rest, "what have you in the larder?
Any thing better than *castanas quemadas* and cold
water?—*agua hermoisissima de la fuente*, as they
say here?"

"*Si, si*, noble caballero," replied the patron, as
he stood with his ample beaver in his left hand,
bowing low at every word, and laying his right
upon his heart.

"Ah!  Well, then, have you any beef or
mutton,—roasted, boiled, or cooked in any way?"

"No, *senor officiale; no hay*."

"Any fish?  You are near the Tajo."

"*Si, baccallao*."

"Pho! hombre!  What, have you nothing else?
Any fowl?"

"*No hay*."

"Any fruit?"

"*No hay.*"

"*Diavolo*!  Senor Raphael," cried Campbell
angrily, after receiving the same reply to a dozen
things he asked for; "what on earth have you
got, then?"

"*Huevos y tocino, senor mio*."

"Could you not have said so at once, hombre?
Ham and eggs,—excellent! could we but have
barley-meal bannocks and whisky toddy with
them; but here one might as well look for nectar
and the cakes that Homer feeds his gods with.
Any Malaga or sherry?'

"Both, senor, in abundance."

"Your casa seems well supplied for a peninsular
one,—*pan y cebollas*, cursed onions and bread,
with bitter aquardiente, being generally the best
fare they have to offer travellers, however hungry.
But *presto!* Senor Raphael; look sharp, and get
us our provender, for saving a handful or so of
rotten *castanas*, the devil a morsel have we tasted
since we left Niza yesterday.  And, d'ye hear, as
you value the reputation of your casa, put not
a drop of your poisonous garlic among the viands!
Talking of garlic," he added, after Raphael had
withdrawn, "I was almost suffocated with the
fumes of it to-day, when we passed to the leeward
of my namesake's Portuguese cavalry."

As the evening was very fine, they experienced
no inconvenience from the two unglazed apertures
where windows ought to have been, through
which the soft wind blew freely upon them.  The
apartment commanded a view of an extensive
plain, through which wound the distant Tagus, like
a thread of gold among the fertile fields and
inclosures of every varying tint of green and brown.
*Golden* is the term applied to the Tajo, and
such it really appeared, while the saffron glow of
the western sky was reflected on its current, as it
wound sweeping along through ample vineyards,
groves of orange and olive-trees, varied here and
there by a patch of rising corn.  Far down the
plain, and around the base of the hill of Castello
Branco, the red fires, marking the posts of the
out-lying picquets, were seen at equal distances
dotting the landscape; and their white curling
smoke arose through the green foliage, or from
the open corn-field, in tall spiral columns, melting
away on the calm evening sky.  Now and then
the vesper-song from the little chapel of San
Sebastian, half way down the mountain, came
floating towards them, swelling loud and high at one
moment, and almost dying away the next.  Here
and there, upon the pathway leading to it, stood
a Portuguese peasant with his head uncovered,
listening with superstitious devotion to the sounds
coming from the little edifice, the gilded spire
and gothic windows of which were glittering in
the light of the setting sun.

"A glorious view," observed Ronald, after he
had surveyed it for some time in silence; "it
reminds me of one I have seen at home, where the
blue Tay winds past the green carse of Gowrie.
That hill yonder, covered with orange-trees to its
summit, might almost pass for the hill of Kinnoul
with its woods of birch and pine, and those stony
fragments for the ruined tower of Balthayock."

"Truly the scene is beautiful; but its serenity
might better suit an English taste than ours,"
replied Macdonald.  "For my own part, I love
better the wild Hebrides, with the foaming sea
roaring between their shores, than so quiet a
scene as this."

"Hear the western islesman!" said an officer,
laughing.  "He is never at home but among
sterile rocks and boiling breakers."

"You are but southland bred, Captain Bevan,"
answered Macdonald gravely, "and therefore
cannot appreciate my taste."

"The view—though I am too tired to look at
it—is, I dare say, better than any I ever saw
when I was with Sir Ralph in Egypt, where the
scenery is very fine."

"The sandy deserts excepted," observed Bevan.
"Many a day, marching together, we have cursed
them, Campbell?"

"Of course.  But where is that young fellow,
Lisle?  I intended to have had him here to-night,
for the purpose of wetting his commission in
Senor Raphael's sherry."

"He is at Chisholm's billet, I believe.  They
have become close friends of late," replied another
officer, who had not spoken before.

"So I have observed, Kennedy; he is the
nephew of an old Egyptian campaigner, and I love
the lad as if he was a kinsman of my own.  But
here come the 'vivres!'  Smoking-hot and tempting,
faith!  especially to fellows so sharply set as
we are.  Senor Raphael deserves a pillar like
Pompey's erected in his honour, as the best
casa-keeper between Lisbon and Carthagena."

While the talkative major ran on thus, the
'maritornes' of the establishment brought in
the supper, or dinner, on a broad wooden tray,
and arrayed it on the rough table—cloth there
was none—to the best advantage, flanking the
covers with several leathern flasks of sherry,
brown glazed jugs of rich oily Malaga, and round
loaves of bread from the Spanish frontier.

"Now, this is what I consider being comfortable,"
observed the major, as he stowed his
gigantic limbs under the table, and gazed on the
dishes with the eager eye of a hungry man who
had tasted nothing for twenty-four hours.

"We have been lucky in receiving a billet here,
and are much indebted to the worshipful alcalde,"
said Bevan, interrupting a silence which nothing
had broken for some time, except the clatter of
plates and knives.  "A little more of the ham,
major."

"And huevos?—With pleasure.  But eat away,
gentlemen; be quite at home, and make the most
of a meal when you can get one.  I'll trouble you
for that round loaf, Kennedy."

"Splendid bread, the Spanish."

"I have seen whiter in Egypt, when I used to
visit the house of Capitan Mohammed Djedda, at
Alexandria—"

"A visit nearly cost you your life there once,
major."

"You remember it, Bevan; so do I, faith, nor
am I likely to forget it.  But it is too soon for a
story yet; otherwise I would tell the affair to the
young subs.  Help yourself plentifully, Stuart.
Lord knows when we may get such another meal;
so store well for to-morrow's march."

"I am hungry enough to eat an ostrich, bones
and all, I do believe," said Kennedy.  "And in
truth, this fare is the most delicious I have seen
since I first landed at the Castle of Belem, some
eighteen months ago."

"Simple fare it is, indeed," replied the major.
"'Tis very well: the Senor Raphael's tocino is
excellent, being cured probably for his own use;
but his eggs are not so fresh as I used to get
from my own roosts at Craigfianteoch, near Inverary."

"A deuced hard name your estate has, major.
A little more ham, if you please."

"Few can pronounce it so well as myself,
Bevan.  Craig'fi'anteoch,—*that* is the proper accent."

"Meaning the rock of the house of Fingal,
when translated?" observed Ronald.

"Right, Stuart, my boy; the rock of the king
of Selma."

"It has been long in your family, I suppose."

"Since the year 400.  You may laugh, Bevan,
being but a Lowlander, yet it is not the less true.
Since the days of the old Dabriadic kings, when
the great clan Campbell, the race of Diarmid, first
became lords of Argyle," replied the major with
conscious pride, as he pushed away his plate and
stretched himself back in his chair,—"Ardgile,
or Argathelia, as it was then called.  My fathers
are descended in a direct line from Diarmid, the
first lord of Lochow."

"A long and noble pedigree, certainly," observed
Macdonald with a proud smile, becoming
interested in the conversation.  "It out-herods
mine, though I come of the line of Donald, the
lord of the Western Isles."

"Come, come, gentlemen, never mind descents:
none can trace further up than Adam.  Let us
broach some of these sherry bottles," said Bevan
impatiently.  "Pedigrees are too frequently a
subject for discussion at Highland messes, and
were introduced often enough at ours, when we
had one.  Yesterday at Niza, at the *scuttle* there,
which we called a dinner, the colonel and old
Macdonald nearly came to loggerheads about
the comparative antiquity of the Camerons of
Fassifern and Locheil."

"D—n all pedigrees!" cried Kennedy, uncorking
the sherry.  "I am not indebted to my
forbears the value of a herring-scale!"

"These are matters only for pipers and seanachies
to discuss," said Ronald, affecting a carelessness
which he was very far from feeling.  Few
indeed cherished with a truer feeling of Highland
satisfaction the idea that he came of a royal and
long-descended line.  "Let the subject be dropped,
gentlemen.  Fill your glasses: let us drink to the
downfall of Ciudad Rodrigo!'

"Well said, Stuart," echoed Kennedy; "push
the Malaga this way."

"I'll drink it with all my heart," said the
major, filling up his glass; "let it be a bumper,
a brimming bumper, gentlemen,—the downfall
of Ciudad Rodrigo!"

"Pretty fair sherry this, major."

"But it has all the greasy taste of the
confounded pig-skin."

"Why the deuce don't the lazy dogs learn to
blow decent glass bottles?"

"Try the Malaga.  Fill up, and drink to the
hearts we have left behind us!"

"Right, Macdonald,—an old Scottish toast,"
answered Campbell, emptying his horn.  "But
for Ciudad Rodrigo, I almost wish that the place
may hold out until we encounter old Marmont,
and thrash his legions to our hearts' content,
eh!  Bevan?"

"A few days' march will bring us close on Lord
Wellington's head-quarters; and should the place
not capitulate by that time, we shall probably
act Vimiera over again, in the neighbourhood of
Ciudad Rodrigo."

"I shall be very happy to see something of
the kind," observed Ronald.  "I have been six
months in the peninsula, and have scarcely heard
the whiz of a French bullet yet."

"Should we come within a league of Marmont,
your longing for lead will probably be gratified—as
we used to say in Egypt, especially should he
attempt to raise the siege.  But drink, lads;
talking makes one very thirsty."

"I am heartily tired of our long forced-marches
by night and day, and was very glad when, from
the frontiers of Portugal, I looked back and saw
the wide plains of Spanish Estremadura left so
far behind."

"Many a weary march we have had there, Alister."

"And many more we shall have again."

"Never despond," said Bevan.  "With honour
and the enemy in our front—"

"As we used to say in Egypt,—Both be ——!
Carajo!  I'll thank you for the sherry."

"But the troops of the Count d'Erlon—"

"Are arrant cowards, I think.  They have fled
before the glitter of our arms when three leagues
off: the very flaunt of our colours is quite enough
for them, and they are off double quick!"

"The soldiers of *la belle* France behaved otherwise
in Egypt, when I was there with gallant old
Sir Ralph.  But we shall come up with them
sometime, and be revenged for the trouble they
have given us in dancing after them between
Portalagre and Fuente del Maistre."

"That was a brilliant affair," said Macdonald,
"and you unluckily missed it, Stuart."

"Ay; but I hope Marshal Marmont will make
me amends next week; and if ever Senor
Narvaez comes within my reach—"

"Or mine, by heavens! he shall be made a
mummy of!"

"You could scarcely reduce him to any thing
more disagreeable, Alister.  I saw some in Egypt
a devilish deal closer than I relished," said
Campbell, filling his glass as if preparing for a
story, while a smile passed over the features of
his companions, who began to dread one of those
long narratives which were readily introduced at
all times, but especially when wine was to be had,
and the evening was far advanced.  The smile,
however, was unseen, as the dusk had increased
so much, that the gloomy apartment was almost
involved in darkness.  But without, the evening
sky was so clear, so blue and spangled, the air so
cool and balmy, and the perfume wafted on the
soft breeze from the fertile plain below so
odoriferous, that they would scarce have exchanged the
ruinous chamber of the posada in which they
were seated for the most snug parlour in the
most comfortable English inn, with its sea-coal
fire blazing through the bright steel bars, the soft
hearth-rug in front, the rich carpet around, and
the fox-hunts framed on the wall.

"Mummies, indeed!" continued the field-officer;
"I almost shiver at the name!"

"How so, major?" asked Ronald.  "What! a
British grenadier like you, that would not duck
his head to a forty-six pound shot?"

"Why, man!  I would scorn to duck to a shot
from auld Mons Meg herself; but then a mummy,
and in the dark, is another affair altogether.  I
care nothing about cutting a man down to the
breeks, and did so at Corunna, in Egypt, and in
Holland, more than once; but I am not over fond
of dead corpses, to tell you the truth, and very
few Highlandmen you'll find that are.  Have I
never before told you of my adventure with the
mummies, and the *tulzie* that Fassifern and I had
at Alexandria?"

"No,—never!"

"Bevan knows all about it."

"He was in Egypt 'with Sir Ralph,' you know.
It must be something new to us, major."

"I'll tell you the story; meantime light cigars
and fill your glasses, for talking is but dry work,
and there's sherry enough here,—not to mention
the Malaga, to last us till *reveille*, even if we
drink as hard as the king's German Legion."

His companions resigned themselves to their
fate, three of them consoled by the idea that it
was one of the major's stories they had never
heard before.  Cigars were promptly lighted, and
the red points, glowing strangely in the dark, were
the beacons which dimly showed each where the
others sat.

"Drink, gentlemen; fill your glasses, fill away,
lads.  However, I must tell you the affair as briefly
as possible.  I am field-officer for the day, and
have to visit the quarter-guards and cursed
out-picquets in the plain below: but I will go the
rounds at ten, and desire them to mark me at two
in the morning.  They are all our own fellows,
and will behave like Trojans, if I wish them."

"Well, Campbell, the story."

After a few short pulls at the cigar, and long
ones at his wine-cup, the major commenced the
story, which is given in the following chapter,
and as near the original as I can from
recollection repeat it.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MAJOR'S STORY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER II.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MAJOR'S STORY.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Who has not heard, where Egypt's realms are named,
   |  What monster gods her frantic sons have framed?
   |  Here ibis gorg'd with well-grown serpents, there
   |  The crocodile commands religious fear."
   |                                      *Juvenal*, sat. xv.

.. vspace:: 2

"We are a fine regiment as any in the line;
but I almost think we were a finer corps when
we landed in Egypt in 1801.  We had been
embodied among the clan of Gordon just six years
before, and there was scarcely a man in the ranks
above five-and-twenty years of age,—all fiery
young Highlanders, raised among the men of
Blair-Athol, Braemar, Strathdu, Garioch, Strathbogie,
and the duke's own people, the 'gay and
the gallant,' as they were styled in the olden time.

"There is a story current that the corps was
raised in consequence of some wager between
the Duchess of Gordon and the Prince of Wales,
about who would muster a regiment in least time;
and certainly, her grace got the start of his royal
highness.

"The duchess (here's to her health,—a splendid
woman she is!) superintended the recruiting
department in famous style,—one worthy Camilla
herself!  With a drum and fife,—oftener with a
score of pipers strutting before her,—cockades
flaunting and claymores gleaming, I have seen
her parading through the Highland fairs and
cattle-trysts, recruiting for the 'Gordon Highlanders;'
and a hearty kiss on the cheek she gave to
every man who took from her own white hand the
shilling in King George's name.

"Hundreds of picked mountaineers—regular
dirk and claymore men—she brought us; and
presented the battalion with their colours at
Aberdeen, where we were fully mustered and equipped.
Trotting her horse, she came along the line,
wearing a red regimental jacket with yellow facings,
and a Highland bonnet with an eagle's wing in
it: a hearty cheer we gave her as she came prancing
along with the staff.  I attracted her attention
first, for I was senior sub of the grenadiers, and
the grenadiers were always *her* favourites.  I would
tell you what she said to me, too, about the length
of my legs, but it ill becomes a man to repeat
compliments.

"Right proud I was of old Scotland and the
corps, while I looked along the serried line when
we drew up our battle-front on the sandy beach
of the bay of Aboukir.  Splendid they appeared,—the
glaring sun shining on their plaids and plumes,
and lines of burnished arms.  Gallant is the garb
of old Gaul, thought I, and who would not be a
soldier?  Yes, I felt the true *esprit du corps*
burning within me at the sight of our Scottish blades,
and equally proud, as a Briton, at the appearance
of other corps, English or Irish, as they mustered
on the beach beneath St. George's cross[\*] or the
harp of old Erin.  The tri-colours and bayonets
of France were in our front, and the moment was
a proud one indeed, as we advanced towards
them animated by the hearty British cheers from
our men-of-war in the bay.  All know the battle
of Alexandria.  We drove the soldiers of Buonaparte
before us 'like chaff before the wind;' but
the victory cost us dear: many a bold heart dyed
the hot sand with its gallant blood, and among
them our countryman, noble old Abercrombie.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] St. George's red cross is the distinguishing badge of every
English regiment.

.. vspace:: 2

"Poor Sir Ralph!  When struck by the death-shot,
I saw him reel in his saddle, his silver hair
and faded uniform dabbled with his blood.  His
last words are yet ringing in my ears, as, waving
his three-cocked hat, he fell from his horse,—

"'Give them the bayonet, my boys!  Forward,
Highlanders!  Remember the hearts and the hills
we have left behind us!'

"Here's his memory in Malaga, though I would
rather drink it in Islay or Glenlivet.  We did give
them the bayonet, and the pike too, in a style that
would have done your hearts good to have seen.
It was a glorious victory,—Vimiera, the other
day, was nothing to it,—and well worth losing
blood for.  That night we hoisted the union on
the old Arab towers of Aboukir, and Lord
Hutchinson took command of the army.  On the 18th
September, 1801, we placed Alexandria in the
power of the Turks.  Our wounded we stowed
away in the mosques and empty houses; our
troops were quartered on the inhabitants, or
placed under canvas without the city walls, and
we found ourselves while there tolerably
comfortable, excepting the annoyance we suffered from
insects and the enervating heat, which was like
that of a furnace; but the *kamsin*, or 'hot wind of
the desert,' one must experience to know what it
really is.

"When it begins to blow, the air feels perpetually
like a blast rushing from a hot fire, and the
atmosphere undergoes a change sufficient to strike
even the heart of a lion with terror.  The louring-sky
becomes dark with clouds of a bloody hue,
and the sun, shorn of its rays and its glory, seems
to float among them like a round ball of glowing
purple, while the whole air becomes dense and
dusty, rendering respiration out of doors almost
an impossibility.  Although during the reign of
the terrible *kamsin* the sun was scarcely visible,
the water in the public fountains grew hot; our
musquet barrels and steel weapons, the wood,
marble, iron, and every thing, felt warm and
burning.  When the awful blast is discovered afar
off, coming sweeping from the arid deserts of
Lybia and Arabia, the inhabitants of cities fly to
their dwellings for refuge, and shut themselves up
closely; the wandering Arab in the silent
wilderness hollows a pit in the sand wherein to hide
himself; and the unfortunate traveller, when
surprised on the way-side, throws himself on the
earth, with his face towards Mecca, while he
covers his mouth and nostrils with the lawn of
his turban, or the skirt of his robe: the very
camel buries its head in the sand till the fearful
blast is over.  Hand me the sherry, Kennedy;
the very remembrance of the *kamsin* makes me
thirsty.

"Cameron—I mean Fassifern—and I lived
together in the same tent, which was pitched
without the city, in a spot where enormous ruins
incrusted with saltpetre were piled on every side.
I well remember drawing back the triangular door
of the tent, and looking cautiously forth when the
wind had passed.  Here and there I saw the
prostrate corpses of some Turks and Egyptians, who
had been suffocated by inhaling the hot sandy
air.  They presented a terrible spectacle, certainly.
They were swelled enormously, turned to a pale
blue colour; and there they lay, rapidly festering
and decomposing in the heat of the sun, although
they had been alive and well that morning.

"By it I nearly lost Jock Pentland, my servant.
I discovered the poor chield lying, half dead, at
the base of Cleopatra's needle, and had him
looked to in time to save his life.  Many of our men
were dangerously affected by it; but when it
passed away, all was right again,—and I remember
how pleased Fassifern and I were, when, for
the first time after the *kamsin*, we sallied forth on
our daily visit to our friend Mohammed Djedda,
a Turkish captain, with whom we had become
acquainted in the course of garrison-duty, and
who had a very handsome house of his own
within the walls of Alexandria.

"Cameron and I had become close comrades,
then being only a couple of jovial subs.  He was
senior, and has got in advance of me; but since he
has obtained command of the corps he keeps us
all at the staff's end, and acts the Highland chief
on too extended a scale.  Yet Jock (we called
him Jock then, for shortness, but it would be
mutiny to do so now,) is a fine fellow, and a
brave officer, and I pledge him heartily in Senor
Raphael's sherry.

"To a stranger the appearance of Alexandria is
certainly striking.  The gigantic ruins of a people
whose power has passed away, overtop the
terraced roofs of the moderns.  The embattled
towers, the shining domes, the tall and slender
minarets rise on every side among groves of the
graceful palm and spreading fig-tree, intermingled
with the sad remains of the years that are gone,
the crumbling temple, the prostrate pillar, and
the mouldering archway!  Friezes and pedestals,
rich with carving and hieroglyphics, lie piled in
shapeless masses, covered with moss and
corroded with saltpetre, meeting the view on every
side, and striking the stranger with veneration
and awe, while his heart is filled with sadness
and sublimity.  The ruins of these vast palaces
which the great genius of Dinocrates designed,
and which the immense wealth of Alexander
erected, are now the dwelling-place of the owl
and the jackal, the serpent, the asp, and the
scorpion.  The inhabitants of the modern city are
indeed strange-looking beings, with brown faces,
bushy black beards, and wearing large turbans
of linen on their bald pates.  Their dress appears
like a shapeless gown of divers colours, enveloping
them from chin to heel; a cimetar and poniard
in the sash, slippers on the feet, and a pipe six
feet long in the hand, completes their costume.
Their women are muffled up to the eyes, which
are the only parts of them visible; and then the
shaggy camels and hideous asses with which
every thoroughfare is crowded—"

"Well, major, but the mummies; you have not
told us of them yet," said Ronald, becoming
impatient.

"I am coming to the point," replied the major,
not in the least displeased at the interruption,
abrupt though it was; "but you must permit me
to tell a story in my own rambling way.  To
continue,—

"The redoubtable captain, Mohammed Djedda,
had become a very great friend of ours; we used
to visit him daily, in the cool part of the evening,
pretending that we came to enjoy a pipe of opium
with him, under the huge *nopal* or cochineal tree
which flourished before his door.  He knew no
English, I very little Turkish, and Cameron none
at all; consequently our conversation was never
very spirited or interesting, and we have sat, for
four consecutive hours, pulling assiduously, or
pretending to do so, at our long pipes, without
uttering a syllable, staring hard at each other
the while with a gravity truly oriental, until we
scarcely knew whether our heads or heels were
uppermost.  We took great credit to ourselves
for never laughing outright at the strange figure
of the Capitan Djedda, as he sat opposite to us,
squatted on a rich carpet, and garbed in his
silken vest, gown, wide cotton pantaloons, and
heavy turban, looking like Blue Beard in the
story-book.  You may wonder what pleasure we
found in this sort of work, but the secret was
this: Mohammed was one of the most fashionable
old bucks in the Turkish service, and of course
could not do without four wives,—no Turk of any
pretensions to rank being without that number.
These he kept in most excellent order and
constant attendance upon his own lazy person,
although he had a score of wretched slaves,—poor
barefooted devils, who wore nought to hide their
brown skins but a blue shirt, girt about their
waist with a leather belt, and a red kerchief
twisted round their crowns.

"But Mohammed's veiled and draperied spouses
were the gentlest creatures I ever beheld, and
not in the least jealous, because he entertained for
them all the same degree of cool contempt; and
often he told us, that 'women were mere animals,
without souls, and only good for breeding children
and mischief.'  One brought his pipe and lit
it, a second spread his carpet under the nopal, a
third arranged his turban, and a fourth put on his
slippers; but he would scorn to thank any with a
glance, and kept his round eyes obstinately fixed
on the ground, as became a Turk and superior
being.  This strange old gentleman had two
daughters; perfect angels they were,—seraphs or
houri.  We could not see their faces, all of which,
with the exception of the eyes, were concealed
by an abominable cloth veil, which it was almost
incurring death to remove before such an infidel
as me.  But their eyes!  By heavens such were
never beheld, not even in the land of sunny eyes—so
large and black, so liquid and sparkling!  No
other parts were visible except their hands and
ankles, which were bare and white, small and
beautiful enough to turn the heads of a whole
regiment.  The expression of their lustrous eyes,
the goddess-like outline of their thinly clad
forms, made Cameron and me imagine their
faces to be possessed of that sublime degree of
dazzling beauty which it is seldom the lot of
mortals to—"

"Excellent, major," exclaimed Alister; "of
all your Egyptian stories, this is the best.  Then it
was the daughters you went to see?"

"To be sure it was! and for the pleasure of
beholding them, endured every evening the staring
and smoking with their ferocious old dog of a papa,
who, could he have divined what the two giaours
were after, would soon have employed some of his
followers to deprive us of our heads.  I am sure, by
the pleased and melting expression of their eyes,
that the girls knew what we came about, and we
would certainly have opened a correspondence with
them by some means, could we have done so;
but as they were kept almost continually under
lock and key, we never found an opportunity to
see them alone, and letters—if we could have
written them—would have been useless, as they
could neither read nor write a word of any known
language, their education being entirely confined
to dancing, singing, and playing on the *'o-ód*, a
kind of guitar used in Egypt: it is a plano-convex
affair, which you may often see introduced in
eastern views and paintings.

"Well, as I related before, on the evening after
the blowing of the *kamsin*, Fassifern and I departed
on our daily visit, eagerly hoping that we might
have an opportunity to see Zela and Azri, the two
daughters, alone, as we marched the next day *en
route* for that great city of the genii and the
fairies, Grand Cairo, and might never again be at
Alexandria.  We were confoundedly smitten, I
assure you, though we have often laughed at it
since.  We were as much in love as two very
romantic young subalterns could be, and very
earnest—hoping, fearing, trembling, and all that—we
were in the matter."

"Well, major, and which was your flame?"

"Zela was mine.  They named her, 'the White
Rose of Sidrah;' which means, I believe, 'the
wonderful tree of Mahomet's paradise.'  But to
continue:

"On approaching the house, we found it all
deserted and silent.  The carpet and pipe lay under
the shadow of the umbrageous nopal, but the grave
and portly Mohammed Djedda was not there.
The house and garden likewise were tenantless,
and after wandering for some time among its maze
of flower-beds and little groves, where the apricot,
the pomegranate, date-palm, custard-apple, and
fig-tree, flourished luxuriantly, we were met by one
of Mohammed's half-naked slaves, who informed
us—me at least, as I alone knew a little of his
guttural language,—that the Capitan Djedda, his
four wives, his slaves, and all his household, were
gone to the great mosque, to return thanks for the
passing away of the *kamsin*.

"As we were very much overcome by the heat
of the atmosphere, we were about to enter the
cool marble vestibule of the mansion, when the
airy figures of the young ladies, in their floating
drapery, appeared at an upper window.

"'Now or never, Colin!' said Fassifern.  'The
young ladies are upstairs and the house is empty;
we will pay them a visit now in safety.'

"'And what if old Blue Beard returns in the
mean time with all his Mamelukes?'

"'Then there is nothing for it but cutting our
way out and escaping.  We march to-morrow,
and the affair would be forgotten in the hurry
of our departure.  But is not death the penalty of
being found in the chambers of Turkish women?'

"'So I have heard,' said I, shrugging my
shoulders; 'but old Mohammed will scarcely try
experiments in the art of decapitation while our own
troops are so near.  Yonder are the sentinels of
the 42nd, among the ruins of the Roman tower,
almost within hail.'

"'Which is the way, Colin?' asked he, as we
wandered about the vestibule, among columns
and pedestals surmounted by splendid vases filled
with gorgeous flowers.

"'Up this staircase, I think.'

"'But what the devil am I to say when we
meet them?  I know not a word of the language.'

"'Tush! never mind that, Jock: do as I do,'
said I, as we ascended the white marble steps
leading to the upper story, and passed through
several apartments, the very appearance of which
made me long to become Mohammed's son-in-law;
but I can assure you, that never until that
moment had I thought seriously of making the
'White Rose of Sidrah' Mrs. Colin Campbell of
Craigfianteoch.  The chambers through which
we passed were singular, and gorgeously rich
beyond conception; realizing all those ideas of
oriental magnificence which are so well described
in the 'Thousand and One Nights.'  The walls,
floors, and columns were of polished marble,
pure and spotless as snow; and then there
were arches hung, and pillars wreathed, with
festoons and garlands of dewy and freshly gathered
flowers.  Globes of crystal, vases of the purest
alabaster, Persian carpets, hangings of damask
and silk, girt with cords and tassels of gold,
appeared on every side, and in many of the apartments
bubbled up fountains of bright and sparkling
water, diffusing a cool and delightful feeling
through the close atmosphere of the mansion.

"The tinkling sound of the *'o-ód*, or Egyptian
lute, attracted us towards the kiosk which
contained the fair objects who had led us on the
adventure.  We raised the heavy folds of a glossy
damask curtain, and found ourselves, for the first
time, in their presence unobserved by others.

"The two graceful creatures, who were as usual
closely veiled, sprang from the ottomans on which
they were seated, and came hastily towards us,
exclaiming in surprise mingled with fear and
pleasure, '*Ma sha Allah!  Ya mobareh, ya Allah!*'
and a score of such phrases as the tumult of
their minds caused them to utter.

"'Salam alai hom,' said Fassifern, meaning
'good morrow,' which was all the progress he
had made in the oriental languages, and we
doffed our bonnets, making a salaam in the most
graceful manner.

"'Colin, tell them to take off their confounded
veils,' whispered Cameron.

"I asked them to do so in the most high-flown
style imaginable, but they screamed out another
volley of exclamations, and fled away to the
further corner of the apartment, yet came again
towards us timidly, while I felt my heart beating
audibly as I surveyed the soft expression of pleasure
that beamed in their orient eyes.  They were
evidently delighted at the novelty of our visit, though
their pleasure was tinged with a dash of dread
when they thought of their father's return, and the
boundless fury of a Turkish vengeance.  Zela
placed her little white hands on my epaulets, and
looking steadfastly at me through the round
holes in her veil, burst into a merry shout of
laughter.

"'Beautiful Zela,' said I, as I threw my arm
around her, 'White Rose of Sidrah, at what do
you laugh?'

"'You have no beard!' said she, laughing
louder.  'Where is the bushy hair which hangs
from the chin of a man?'

"'I haven't got any yet,' I answered in English,
considerably put out by the question; but
I was only a sub, you know, and had never even
thought of a razor: my chin was almost as smooth
as her own, and so she said as she passed her soft
little hand over it.  Again I attempted to remove
the veil which hid her face, but so great was her
terror, so excessive her agitation, that I desisted
for a time.  But between caressing and entreating,
in a few minutes we conquered their scruples and
oriental ideas of punctilio, when we were
permitted to remove the lawn hoods and view their
pure and sublime features, with the heavy masses
of long black and glossy hair falling over naked
necks and shoulders, which were whiter than
Parian marble.  They were indeed miraculously
beautiful, and fully realized our most romantic
and excited ideas of their long-hidden loveliness.

"I had just obtained some half-dozen kisses
from the dewy little mouth of Zela, when I saw
Cameron start up and draw his sword.

"'What is the matter, Fassifern?' I exclaimed;
but the appalling and portly figure of Mohammed
Djedda, as he stood in the doorway, swelling with
rage and eastern ferocity, was a sufficient answer.
In his right hand he held his drawn sabre of keen
Damascus steel, and in the other a long brass
Turkish pistol.  Crowding the marble staircase
beyond, we saw his ferocious Mameluke soldiers,
clad in their crimson *benishes* or long robes of
cotton, and tall *kouacks* or cylindrical yellow
turbans, while their spears, poniards, and cimetars,
short, crooked, and of Damascus steel, flashed
and glittered in a manner very unpleasant to
behold.  The poor girls, horrified beyond description
at being discovered in the society of men, of
Christians, and unveiled too, were so much
overcome by their terrors, that they were unable to
fly; and calling on the bride of Mahomet in
Paradise to protect them, embraced each other
franticly and fondly, expecting instant death.

"'Here is a devil of a mess, Cameron,' cried I,
drawing out Andrea.  'Let us leap the window,
and fly for the camp!'

"'But their carbines throw a dozen balls at
once,' was his hurried reply.

"'Shoulder to shoulder, Jock! now for the
onset,' said I, preparing to rush recklessly upon
them.  'We must take our chance of—'

"The rest was cut short by a slash the old
savage made at me with his cimetar, which
took three inches off the oak stick I cut at home
in the green woods of Inverary, before I left
them to follow the drum.  My blood began to
boil.

"'Mohammed Djedda!' said I, in Turkish, 'we
have done no wrong; we are strangers among
you, and know not the laws of the land.  Allow
us to depart in peace; otherwise you may have
good reason to repent,' I added, pointing to the
tents of the 'auld forty-twa.'

"'Depart in peace, said you?  Despicable
giaour!' thundered he, his Turkish tone becoming
more guttural by his ferocity.  'Never, never!
By the sacred stone of Mecca!—by every hair
in the beard of the holy Prophet!—by the
infernal bridge which spans the sea of fire,—slave
of an accursed race, ye never shall!  Never!  I
have sworn it.'

"I saw Cameron's eyes flash and glare as he
prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible.

"'Then our steel for it, old man; and remember,
should we fall, our friends in the white tents
will avenge us.'

"'Thou too shalt die!' growled the old barbarian,
discharging his pistol at poor little Zela,
who fell dead without a groan, with the purple
blood streaming from her white bosom, which
I saw heave its last convulsive throb around the
death-shot.  The thick muslin turban of Mohammed
saved him from one tremendous blow which
I dealt at his scowling visage, but he sunk to the
earth beneath the weight of the claymore.

"'*Allah, il Allah!* death to the soldiers of
Isauri!'[\*] yelled his infuriated followers, rushing
madly on me, and in an instant I was vanquished:
I received a terrible blow on the back of my head
from the iron mace of a Mameluke.  I remember
no more than just seeing Cameron cut two down
to the teeth, run a third through the brisket, leap
the window, and escape.

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.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Jesus Christ.

.. vspace:: 2

"'Good by, Cameron; gallantly done!' cried
I, as I sunk stunned and senseless by the lifeless
corse of Zela.

"How long I lay insensible I know not; but
when my faculties returned I found myself
stretched upon the ground, which felt cold and
damp, and in a place involved in the deepest
and most impenetrable gloom.  I found that the
epaulets and lace had been torn from my coat,
and an intense pain on the back of my head
reminded me of the blow of the steel mace; and
on raising my hand to the wound, I found my
hair clotted and hardened with coagulated blood.
Rats or some monstrous vermin running over me
caused me to leap from the ground, and endeavour
to discover where I was.  This the darkness
rendered impossible; but by the chill atmosphere of
the place, the difficulty of respiration I experienced,
and the hollow echoes of my feet, dying
dismally away in distant cavities, I conjectured
rightly that I was imprisoned in some subterranean
vault.  What the agony of my mind was
when this idea became confirmed, you may better
conceive than I describe.  I recollected that the
troops marched next day, and that unless
Fassifern made some most strenuous attempt to
discover and free me, I should be left at the mercy
of the lawless Mohammed, either to be his
perpetual captive in a dungeon, to be left to a slow
lingering death by starvation, or a more expeditious
one by some mode of torture, such as the
most refined spirit of Eastern cruelty and
barbarism could invent.

"In groping about, I soon came in contact
with a stone wall, which I felt carefully all round,
but no door or outlet could I discover.  A succession
of wooden boxes placed upright, sounding
and hollow when I touched them, informed me at
once of the truth,—that I was cast into one of
those ancient catacombs which are so numerous
under the city of Alexandria,—horrible caverns
hollowed in the bowels of the earth, where the
mummy-remains of the subjects of the Pharaohs,
the Ptolemies, and others, out-standing the course
of more than twenty centuries, lay swathed in
their bandages and embalming!  The blood
rushed back upon my trembling heart, and every hair
on my aching head seemed to bristle upon my
scalp, as I staggered dizzily against the mouldy
wall, knocking down half-a-dozen mummy-coffers,
which fell heavily and hollowly upon the pavement.

"You may imagine what were my feelings when
I reviewed my situation.  I, a superstitious
Highland boy, that used to shake in my brogues, like
a dog in a wet sack, if I passed the kirk-yard of
Inverary after night-fall, and never went into the
dark but with my eyes closed tight for fear of
seeing something 'uncanny,' when I found myself
in this gloomy repository of the dead I was so
confounded and terrified, that it was long before
I recovered my self-possession so far as to cast a
firm glance of scrutiny around me, and endeavour
to discover some means of escape.  I perceived
with joy a faint ray of daylight streaming through
a small aperture, which appeared nearly twenty
feet above me.

"'Dawn has broken!' I exclaimed in sudden
anguish; 'the troops must have marched!
Cameron cannot have escaped Mohammed, or, oh,
my God! surely he would not, without making
an effort to save me, abandon me to perish here!'

"'Perish here!' repeated half-a-dozen dreary
echoes.  I looked around me in consternation.
The sounds almost seemed to proceed from the
red blubber-like lips of the frightful faces which
I now perceived carved and painted on the
outside of the upright mummy-coffers.  They were
the figures of the dead, and tinted with those
imperishable colours with which the ancient Egyptians
decorated the exterior of their temples.  The
large round eyes of these appalling effigies seemed
to be staring hard at me from every dark corner,
winking, goggling, and rolling; while their very
mouths, capacious and red, expanded into a broad
grin, methought, at my misery.  Against the black
wall they were ranked at equal distances, but
here and there were some which had fallen to
pieces, and lay upon the earth, exposing the
decayed and mouldered corse standing stark, gaunt,
and erect, swathed tightly in its cerements.  Others
had fallen down, and lay prostrate among little
urns, containing, I suppose, the embalmed
remains of the sacred ibis, the monkey, or other
animals revered by the ancient idolaters.
Enormous bats were sailing about, black scorpions,
and many a huge bloated reptile, of which I
knew not even the name, appearing as if formed
alone for such a place, crawled about the coffins,
or fell now and then with a heavy squabby sound
from the wet slimy wall on the moist and watery
pavement.

"By the grey light, straggling through what
seemed a joint in the key-stone of an arch above,
I was enabled to note these things, and I did so
with wary and fearful glances, while my heart
swelled almost to breaking when I thought of my
blighted hopes, and that home which was far
awa—the green mountains of Mull and of
Morven, and the deep salt lochs of Argyle; and,
dearer than all, the well-known hearth where I
had sat at the knee of my mother, and heard her
rehearse those wild traditions of hill and valley,
which endeared them more to me.

"'Have the followers of the false Isauri
departed?' asked the guttural voice of old
Mohammed or some one above me; while the cranny
over-head became darkened, and the trampling of
feet, together with the clatter of weapons, became
audible.  'Have the eaters of pork and drinkers
of wine,—have the unclean dogs departed from
the walls of Iskandrieh?'  I listened in
breathless suspense.

"'They have,' answered the yet more guttural
voice of a Mameluke; 'they go towards the desert.
May they perish in the sand, that the jackal
and wolf may fatten and howl over their bones!'

"'Amen,—*Allah kebur*!  Great is God, and
Mahomet his holy Prophet!' replied the Capitan
Djedda, while my heart died within me to hear
that our people had departed from Alexandria.
These were some of the ungrateful infidels for
whom brave Sir Ralph, and so many gallant Britons,
had reddened the arid sand with their blood!

"'Then bring ye up this follower of Isauri,'
said Mohammed, 'and he will see whether his
prophet, or all the dervishes and mollahs of his
faith, can preserve him from the death I have
sworn he shall die.  Ere night, his carcass shall
be food for the jackals; and while the unbeliever
looks his last on the bright setting sun, Hadji
Kioudh get ready the.....'  What word he
finished with I know not, but it was sufficient to
strike terror to the inmost recesses of my heart.
I well knew some terrible instrument of torture
was named.

"What my emotions were I cannot describe,
when I found death so near, and knew that I was
powerless, defenceless, and unarmed, having no
other weapon but my oaken staff, which, strange
to say, I had never relinquished.  I beheld the
claw of an iron crow-bar inserted in the cranny
which admitted light, for the purpose of raising
the stone trap-door of the catacomb; and as the
space opened, I saw, or imagined I saw, the
weapons of Mohammed's followers flashing in the
sun-light.  My life never appeared so dear, or of
such inestimable value, as at that moment, when
I found myself about to lose it,—to be sacrificed
like a poor mouse in a trap.  I cast around a
furious glance of eagerness and despair.  A small
round archway, which I had not before observed,
met my eye; yawning and black it appeared in
the gloom, and supported by clumsy short Egyptian
pillars.  I flew towards it, as novels say,
animated by the most tumultuous hopes and fears,
praying to Heaven that it might afford me some
chance of escape from the cimetars of the savage
Mahometans, who had already raised the trap
stone, and lowered a long ladder into the vault.

"The passage was long but straight, and guided
by a distant light, glimmering at the other end,
I sped along it with the fleetness of a roebuck;
receiving, as I went, many a hard knock from the
bold carvings and knobby projections of the short
dumpy pillars that formed a colonnade on each
side.  I heard the sabres and iron maces of the
Mameluke warriors clatter, as successively five
or six of them leaped into the vault, and set up
the wild shout of "*Ya Allah!*" when they found
that I was not there.  By their not immediately
searching the passage, I concluded that they were
unacquainted with the geography of the place,
and, in consequence of their having come from
the strong glare of the sun, were unable to
perceive the arch in the gloom of the cavern.  They
became terrified on finding that I was gone, and
withdrew, scampering up the ladder with the
utmost precipitation, attributing, I suppose, my
escape to supernatural means.

"I kept myself close between the twisted columns,
scarcely daring to breathe until they had
withdrawn and all was quiet, when I again pursued
my way towards the glimmering light, which
was still in view, but at what distance before me
I could form no idea.  Sometimes it appeared
close at hand, sometimes a mile off, dancing
before me like a will o' the wisp.  My progress was
often embarrassed by prostrate columns, and
oftener by heaps of fallen masonry.  More than
once I was nearly suffocated by the foul air of
the damp vaults, or the dust and mortar among
which I sometimes fell.  But I struggled onward
manfully, yet feeling a sort of sullen and reckless
despair, putting up the while many a pious prayer
and ejaculation, strangely mingled with many an
earnest curse in Gaelic on Mohammed Djedda,
and the architect who planned the labyrinth,
though perhaps it might have been the great
Gnidian Sostrates himself.[\*]  After toiling thus
for some time until wearied and worn out, I found
myself in the lower vault of one of those large
round towers which are so numerous among the
ancient and ruinous fortifications of Alexandria.
A round and shattered aperture, about ten feet
from the floor, admitted the pure breeze, which I
inhaled greedily, while my eyes gloated on the
clear blue sky; and I felt more exquisite delight
in doing so, than even when gazing on the pure
snowy bosom of the beautiful Zela, whom, to tell
you the truth, I had almost forgotten during the
quandary in which I found myself.  The cry of
'*Jedger Allah!*' shouted close beside the ruinous
tower, informed me I was near the post of a
Mussulman sentinel, and compelled me to act with
greater caution.  I heard the cry (which answers
to our 'All's well') taken up by other sentinels at
intervals, and die away among the windings of
the walls.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] A famous architect, who lived in the reign of one of the
Ptolemies.

.. vspace:: 2

"By the assistance of a large stone I was enabled
to reach the aperture, through which I looked
cautiously, to reconnoitre the ground.  It was a
glorious evening, and the dazzling blaze of the
red sun, as it verged towards the west, was shed
on the still, glassy sea, where the white sails of
armed xebecs, galleys, and British ships of war
were reflected downwards in the bosom of the
ample harbour.  Appearing in bold light or
shadow, as the sun poured its strong lustre upon
them, I saw the long lines of mouldering
battlements,—the round domes, the taper spires and
obelisks which rose above the embrasures, where
the sabres and lances of the Turks gave back the
light of the setting sun, whose farewell rays were
beaming on the pillar of Diocletian and the grey
old towers of Aboukir, from the summits of which
were now waving the red colours of Mahomet.
But the beauty of the scenery had no charms for
the drowsy Moslem (whose cry I had heard, and
whom I now perceived to be a cavalry vidette,)
stationed under the cool shadow of a palm-grove
close by.  He was seated on a carpet, with his
legs folded under him.  His sabre and dagger lay
near him, drawn, and he sat without moving a
muscle, smoking with grave assiduity, and wearing
his tall yellow *kouack* very much over his right
eye, which led me to suppose that he was a smart
fellow among the Mamelukes—perceiving, to my
great chagrin, that he was one of Mohammed's
savage troop.  His noble Arab horse, with its
arching neck and glittering eyes, stood motionless
beside him, its bridle trailing on the ground, while
it gazed with a sagacious look on the columns of
smoke, which at times curled upwards from the
moustached mouth of its master, who was staring
fixedly in an opposite direction to the city.  I
followed the point to which he turned his round
glassy eye, and beheld, to my inexpressible joy,
an English infantry regiment—Hutchinson's
rearguard—halted under a grove of fig-trees, but
alas! at a distance far beyond the reach of my call.

"I formed at once the resolution of confronting
the sentinel, and endeavouring to escape.  The
moment was a precious one: the corps was
evidently about to move off, and was forming in
open column of companies, with their band in the
centre.[\*]  While I was collecting all my scattered
energies for one desperate and headlong effort, a
loud uproar in the distant catacomb arrested me
for a moment, and I heard the terrible voice of
Mohammed Djedda, exclaiming—

'*Bareh Allah!* we shall find him yet: the
passage, slaves! the passage!  By God and the holy
Prophet, if the giaour escape, false dogs, ye shall
die!  Forward!'

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Regimental bands always marched in the centre in those
days.

.. vspace:: 2

"A confused trampling of feet, a rush and clatter
followed, and I sprang lightly through the aperture
into the open air.  Stealing softly towards the
unconscious Mameluke, I wreathed my hand in the
flowing mane of his Arab horse, and seizing the
dangling bridle, vaulted into his wooden-box saddle;
while he, raising the cry of '*Allah, il Allah!*'
sprung up like a harlequin, and made a sweeping
stroke at me with his sharp sabre.  He was about
to handle his long brass-barrelled carbine, when,
unhooking the steel mace which hung at his
saddle-bow, and discharging it full on his swarthy
forehead, I stretched him motionless on the earth.
At that instant Mohammed, sabre and lance in
hand, rushed from the ruined tower at the head
of his followers.

"'Hoich!  God save the king,—hurrah!' cried
I, giving them a shout of reckless laughter and
derision, as I forced the fleet Arab steed onward,
like an arrow shot from a bow,—madly compelling
it to leap high masses of ruinous wall, blocks of
marble and granite, all of which it cleared like a
greyhound, and carried me in a minute among our
own people, with whom I was safe, and under
whose escort I soon rejoined the regiment, whom
I found all assured of my death,—especially the
senior ensign, Cameron, who had got off scot-free,
having related the doleful story of my brains being
knocked out by the Mameluke soldier of Mohammed
Djedda, a complaint against whom was about
to be lodged with the *Shaìk-el-beled* by Lord
Hutchinson, commanding the troops.

"Well, this was my adventure among the mummies,
and it was one that left a strong impression,
you may be sure.  How dry my throat is with
talking!  Pass the decanters—the sherry jugs,
I mean, whoever has them beside him: 'tis now
so dark, that I cannot see where they are."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ANOTHER NIGHT AT MERIDA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium bold

   ANOTHER NIGHT AT MERIDA.

.. vspace:: 2

"The fire had resounded in the halls; and the voice of the
people is heard no more.......  Desolate is the dwelling
of Moina: silence is in the house of her
fathers."—*Ossian's Poems*.—Carthon.

.. vspace:: 2

The conversation which ensued on the close of
the major's story, was interrupted by the clatter
of a horse trotting along the causewayed street.

"That must be my batman, Jock Pentland,
with my horse for the rounds," said Campbell
impatiently.  "I am sure I told the Lowland loon
not to come till the bells of San Sebastian rang
the hour of ten."

"It is a dragoon, I think; but the night is so dark
I am not certain," said Ronald, as he drew back
from the open window.  "He has dismounted here."

At that moment the door opened, and the host
appeared, bearing a long candle in his hand, flaring
and sputtering in the currents of air, while he,
bowing very low, introduced the Condé de Truxillo,
who advanced towards them, making his long
staff plume sweep the tiles of the floor at every
bow he gave.

"Welcome, noble condé!" said Stuart, rising
and introducing him to the rest.

"Ah, Don Ronald, are you here?  I am indeed
proud to see you."

"You come upon us most unexpectedly, condé."

"I have been in my saddle all day," replied the
other, casting himself languidly into a chair, "and
have this moment come from the quarters of Sir
Rowland Hill, for whom I had despatches—"

"From Lord Wellington?"

"Yes, caballeros."

"And Ciudad Rodrigo?" cried they eagerly.

"Has fallen—"

"Fallen?"

"Two days ago."

"Hurrah!  Well done Lord Wellington!" cried
Bevan, draining his glass.

"The devil!" muttered Campbell; "then we
shall have no fighting with Marmont."

"He has retreated to Salamanca," said the
condé, "abandoning to its fate the fortress, which
I saw the gallant *Inglesos* carry by storm in the
course of half-an-hour,—killing, wounding, and
capturing three thousand of the enemy."

"Glorious news, Don Balthazzar," said Ronald.
"But refresh yourself: here is sherry, and there
Malaga, with cigars in abundance.  After you have
rested, we shall be glad to hear an account of the
assault."

"I thank you, senor caballero," said the count,
providing himself.

"What is our loss?" asked Campbell.  "Have
many *officiales y soldados* fallen?'

"What the allies suffered I have never heard,—at
least 'twas not known when I left for Castello
Branco; but two brave general officers have
been slain."

"Their names, condé?"

"Crawfurd and Mackinnon: one fell dead while
I was speaking to him."

"Gallant fellows they were, and countrymen
of our own, too!" said Campbell, gulping down
his sherry with a dolorous sigh.  "But 'tis the
fortune of war: every bullet has its billet,—their
fate to-day may be ours to-morrow."

During a long discussion which ensued upon
the news brought by the condé, the latter had
applied himself to the remnants of the tocino and
huevos, with infinite relish.

"I wonder what the despatches for Sir Rowland
may contain?" observed Captain Bevan, supposing
that the condé might throw some light on the
matter; but the hungry Español was too busy to
hear him.

"Most likely an order to retrace our steps,"
replied Campbell.  "I would wager my majority
against a maravedi, that you will find it to be
the case."

"Very probably.  The devil! we are a mere
corps of observation just now."

"It was not wont to be so with the second
division," observed Kennedy.

"Never mind," replied Campbell; "it will be
our turn in good time.  I drink this horn to
outmost noble selves, and——  Hah! there are the
bells of San Sebastian.  I must be off to visit
these confounded picquets: my horse will be here
immediately."

The major rose and buckled on Andrea, surveying
with a sour look the long line of equi-distant
fires which were glowing afar off,—marking the
chain of out-posts, around the base of the
mountain, and along the level plain.

"Here comes my batman, Jock," said he, looking
into the street.  "Pentland, my man; is that you?"

"Ay, sir!" replied a soldier, dressed in his white
shell-jacket and kilt, as he rode a horse up to the
door and dismounted.

"You are a punctual fellow.  Desire Senor
Raphael, the inn-keeper, to give you a canteen full
of aquardiente.  Are the holsters on, the pistols
loaded, and fresh flinted?"

"A's richt, sir," replied the groom, raising
his hand to his flat bonnet.

"I will see you again, lads, when we get under
arms in the morning," said Campbell, enveloping
himself in an immense blue cloak.

"How, major!  Are you so fond of bivouacking,
that you mean to sleep with the out-picquets?"

"Not quite, Alister; but I mean to finish the
night at Fassifern's billet, and fight our battles
and broils in Egypt over again for the entertainment
of his host, a rich old canon, who is said to
have in his cellars some of the best wine on this
side the peak of Ossian."[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] A high peak of the Pyrennean mountains.

.. vspace:: 2

"Do not forget, senor, to make the reverend
Padre's borachio-skins gush forth like a river,"
said the condé.  "A priest would as soon part with
his heart's blood, as his wine to a stranger."

"I am too old a soldier to require that advice,
Balthazzar," said Campbell, wrapping his mantle
around his gigantic figure, which the Spaniard
surveyed with a stare of surprise.  "I regret you
have not all invitations; but be as much at home
here as you can, and be careful how you trust
yourselves within any of Senor Raphael's couches.
Peninsular—pardon, condé!—I mean Portuguese
posadas are none of the most cleanly; and if you
would wish to avoid being afflicted with *sarna*
for twelve months to come, it would be quite as
safe and pleasant to repose on the floor."

"The sarna! major," exclaimed Stuart; "what
does that mean?"

"We give a less classical name for it at home
in the land o' cakes," said Campbell, as he
descended the stair, making the place shake with
his heavy tread; "but you will discover to your
cost what it means, if you are rash enough to
sleep between the sheets of any bed in the
posadas of this country."

Don Balthazzar returned next morning to rejoin
Lord Wellington's staff at Ciudad Rodrigo.

His despatches contained an order to Sir Rowland
Hill to return into Spanish Estremadura, the
retreat of Marshal Marmont rendering the
presence of the second division unnecessary in
Portugal.  Many were sadly disappointed when this
order was read next morning in the hollow squares
of regiments,—all having been in high spirits, and
filled with enthusiasm at the prospect of a brush
with the enemy before the expected capitulation
of the celebrated fortress; but there was no help
for it,—obedience being the first duty of a soldier.
On the march towards Merida again, they
consoled themselves with the hope that the Marshal
Duke of Dalmatia, General Drouet, or some of
the commanders in their front, would make them
amends by showing fight.  The British army had
now been supplied with tents sent out to them
from Britain; and they had the prospect of
encamping with what they considered tolerable
comfort during the summer campaign, and not lying,
like the beasts of the field, without a shelter from
the inclemency of the weather.

The same degree of coldness and hauteur was
yet maintained between Ronald and Louis Lisle,
who never addressed each other but when
compelled by military duty to do so; and only then
in the most distant terms, and studied style of
politeness.  The quarrel which had ensued on
their first meeting was yet rankling in the hearts
of both, and their fiery Scottish pride was fast
subduing the secret feeling of friendship which
still lurked in the breast of each.

The weather had become very warm, and the
soldiers suffered excessively from the burning heat
of the sun and the extreme scarcity of water,
when traversing the wild and arid plains of
Estremadura.  Their rations were of such an indifferent
quality, and so very scant, as barely to sustain
life; and Ronald Stuart, although a stout young
Highlander, felt often so much exhausted, that
his heavy broad-sword nearly dropped more than
once from his hand.

If such was his situation, what must that have
been of the poor private soldiers, laden as they
were with their heavy arms, ammunition, and
accoutrements,—knapsack, great coat, blanket,
haversack, and canteen,—a load weighing nearly
eighty pounds!  Day after day they marched
forward in the face of the scorching sun,—hot,
fierce, and glaring, hanging above them in the
blue and cloudless vault, withering the grass
beneath their feet, and causing the earth to gape
and crack as if all inanimate nature were athirst
for rain and moisture.  Every breath of air they
inhaled seemed hot and suffocating, like the fiery
blast which gushes from an oven when the door
is opened.

More than once on the march had Ronald
relieved Louis by carrying his heavy standard,
when he was almost sinking with exhaustion; but
the want of water was the chief misery endured.
The supply with which they filled their wooden
canteens at the public fountains of Albuquerque,
Zagala, and La Nava, became during the march
heated and tainted, sickly to the taste and
unrefreshing.

Now and then, when a spring was passed on
the line of march, the soldiers, unrestrained by
discipline, crowded eagerly and wildly about it,
striving furiously, almost at drawn bayonets, for
the first canteen-full, until the place became a
clay puddle, and further contention was useless.

"O for ae sough o' the cauler breeze that blaws
ower the braes o' Strathonan!" Evan would often
exclaim, as he wiped away the perspiration which
streamed from under his bonnet; "or a single
mouthfu' o' the Isla, where it rins sae cauld and
deep at Corrie-avon, or the foaming swirl at the
linn o' Avondhu, for my tongue is amaist burnt
to a cinder.  Gude guide us, Maister Ronald, this
is awfu'."

"O'ds man, Iverach, if I was again on the
bonnie Ochil or Lomond hills," said a Lowlander,
"de'il ding me gin I wad gie ower driving sheep
and stots to follow the drum."

"Or staun to pe shoot at for twa pawbees ta
hoor,—teevil tak' it!" added a Gordon from
Garioch.

"Hear to the greedy kite!" exclaimed the
Lowlander.  "An Aberdonian is the chield to
reckon on the bawbees."

"Teevil and his tam pe on you and yours!"
cried the Gordon angrily.  "Oich, oich! it's well
kent that a Fife-man would rake hell for a bodle,
and skin—"

The commanding voice of Colonel Cameron,
exclaiming, "Silence, there, number four
company! silence on the march!" put an instant
end to the controversy.

"Hot work this, Stuart, very.  Beats Egypt
almost," Campbell would say, as he rode past
at times.

Various were the emotions which agitated
Ronald's breast, when he beheld before him the
windings of the Guadiana and the well-known
city of Merida, which was again in possession of
the French.  The jealous feeling with which he
regarded Alice Lisle caused him to look forward
with almost unalloyed pleasure to the expected
meeting with his winning and beautiful patrona;
and it was with a secret sensation of satisfaction—of
triumph perhaps, of which, however, he almost
felt ashamed, that he had witnessed the proud
blood mantling in the cheek of young Louis,
when he (Ronald) was rallied by Alister,
Kennedy, and others, about his residence at Merida,
and the favour he had found with Donna Catalina.

At the fountain where Stuart had been regaled
by the muleteers, a fierce struggle ensued among
the soldiers for a mouthful of water.  The French
troops had maliciously destroyed the pipe and
basin; the water, in consequence, gushed across
the pathway, where the current had now worn a
channel.  Although the whole of General Long's
brigade of cavalry had passed through it,
rendering it a thick and muddy puddle, yet so
intense was the thirst of the soldiers that an angry
scramble ensued around it to fill canteens, or
obtain a mouthful to moisten their tongues, which
were swollen, and clove to their palates.  By dint
of the most strenuous exertions, Evan Iverach
had supplied his master's canteen with the sandy
liquid, neglecting to fill his own, although, poor
fellow, he was perishing with thirst.  Ronald had
placed it to his lips, but found the water so much
saturated with sand, that it was impossible
almost to taste it.  He was replacing the spigot in
the little barrel, when the exclamation of—

"My God!  I shall certainly faint with exhaustion.
Soldiers, I will give a guinea for a
drop of water,—only a single drop," pronounced
in a remarkably soft and musical English accent,
arrested his attention; and on looking up, he
perceived a young lady, attired in a fashionable
riding-habit and hat, pressing her graceful
Andalusian horse among the Highlanders, who were
crushing and jostling around the mutilated
fountain.  The wind blew up her lace veil, discovering
a quantity of fair silky curls falling around a face
which was very pretty and delicate, but thin,
apparently from the fatigue and privations which
were making many a stout soldier gaunt and
bony.  Many who had filled their vessels at the
fountain, held them towards her; but she
gratefully took Ronald's, thanking him by a smile
from the finest blue eyes in the world.

"I am afraid it is impossible you can drink it,"
said he, as he held her bridle, "it is so thick
with clay and animalculae."

"It is very bad, certainly; but yet better than
nothing," replied the lady, as she drank of it,
quenching her burning thirst eagerly.  "Ah, dear
sir!  I regret to deprive you of it; but accept my
kindest thanks in return.  My name is Mrs. Evelyn;
Mr. Evelyn of the 9th Light Dragoons will
return you a thousand thanks for your kindness
to me.  But I must ride fast, if I would see him
again before they attack Merida; and so, sir,
good morning!"

She struck her Andalusian with her little
riding-rod, and bowing gracefully, galloped along the
line of the infantry column towards where the
horse-brigade were forming, previously to
attacking seven hundred foot, which, with a strong
party of steel-clad cuirassiers, occupied the city.
Every eye was turned on the young lady as she
flew along the line of march, with her long fair
ringlets, her lace veil, and the skirt of her
riding-habit waving wide and free about her.

"God's blessing on her bonnie face!"

"Her een are as blue and bricht as the vera lift
aboon!" exclaimed the soldiers, charmed with her
beauty and grace.

"What a happy fellow Evelyn is to possess so
fine a girl," said Captain Bevan.

"How famously she manages that Andalusian horse!"

"Had Evelyn been a wise man, he would have
left her at home in Kent.  He has a splendid
property there,—a regular old baronial hall, with
its mullioned windows and rookery, surrounded
by lawns and fields, where myriads of flies buzz
about the ears of the gigantic plough-horses in
the warm weather.  How foolish to bring a
delicate English lady from her luxurious home, to
undergo the ten thousand miseries incident to
campaigning!"

"But what on earth can have brought her up
from the rear just now, when her husband's corps
are about to drive the enemy from their position?"

"There goes Long!" said Campbell, exultingly
flourishing his stick.  "Keep up your hearts, my
boys!  It will be our turn, in a few minutes, to
give them a specimen of what we learned when in
Egypt with Sir Ralph."

It was Sir Rowland Hill's earnest desire to
capture this small party of the enemy; for which
purpose the cavalry were ordered to ford the
Guadiana at some distance below the ruined
bridge, to out-flank them, and, if possible, to cut
off their retreat.  The French battalion of
infantry, dressed in blue uniform with white trowsers,
(rather unusual, the French troops being generally
very dirty in their persons when on service,) were
seen in position on the opposite side of the river,
drawn up in front of some orange plantations,
while their squadron of cuirassiers occupied the
avenues of the city, where their brass casques,
steel corslets, and long straight swords were
seen flashing in the noon-day sun.  While the
rest of the division halted, the first brigade,
consisting of the 50th and 71st Highland Light
Infantry, 92nd Highlanders, and Captain
Blacier's German Rifle company, commanded by
Major-general Howard, were ordered to advance
with all speed upon the town; while the 9th
and 13th English Light Cavalry, and king's
German Hussars, boldly plunging into the Guadiana,
swam their horses across the stream under
a fire from the carbines of the cuirassiers, who, on
finding their flank thus turned, fired one regular
volley, which unhorsed for ever many of Long's
brigade, and then fled at full speed.  At the
same time the battalion of infantry disappeared,
without firing a shot, among the groves in their
rear.

"Forward! double quick!" was the word; and,
with their rustling colours bending forward on
the breeze, the first brigade pressed onward at
their utmost speed down the descent towards the
city, and through its deserted streets, making
their echoes ring to the clank of accoutrements,
and the rapid and rushing tread of many feet.
The ultimate escape of the enemy was favoured
by the delay caused in providing planks to cross
the blown-up arch of the Roman bridge.  Rafters
and flooring were, without ceremony, torn from
some neighbouring houses, thrown hurriedly
across the gap, and onward again swept the
impatient infantry, eager to come up with, to
encounter, and capture this little band, which had
so adroitly eluded them.  But for that evening
they saw them no more; and after a fruitless
pursuit for some miles, returned to Merida wearied
and fatigued, when the shadows of night had
begun to darken the sky and scenery.

Followed by ours, the enemy's cavalry had
retired at a gallop along the level road to
Almendralejo; often they turned on the way to shout
"*Vive l'Empereur!*" to brandish their swords, or
fire a shot, which now and then stretched a British
dragoon rolling in the dust.  As the first brigade
were returning towards Merida, a mournful episode
in my narrative came under their observation,—one
which calls forth all the best feelings of the
soldier, when the wild excitement of the hour of
conflict has passed away.  Near one of those rude
wooden crosses so common by the way-side in
Spain, placed to mark a spot where murder has
been committed, lay an English troop-horse in
the agonies of death; the froth and blood, oozing
from its quivering nostrils, rolled around in a
puddle, while kicking faintly with its hoofs, it
made deep indentations in the smooth grassy turf.
Beside it lay the rider, with his glittering
accoutrements scattered all about.  His foot was
entangled in the stirrup, by which he appeared to
have been dragged a long way, as his uniform was
torn to pieces, and his body was soiled with clay
and dust.  A carbine-shot had passed through
his brain, and he was lying stark and stiff; his
smart chako had rolled away, and the features of a
dashing English dragoon,—the once gay Evelyn,
were exposed to view.  Beside the corse, weeping
in speechless sorrow and agony, sat his wife,—the
same interesting young lady who had that morning
drank from Ronald's canteen at the fountain.  Her
face was ashy pale,—pale even as that of her dead
soldier,—and she seemed quite unconscious of the
approach of the Highlanders, who could not be
restrained from making an involuntary halt.  Her
hat and veil had fallen off, permitting her fair
curls to stream over her neck and shoulders: she
uttered no sound of woe or lamentation, but sat
with her husband's head resting on her lap, gazing
on his face with a wild and terrible expression,
while her little white hands were bedabbled with
the blood which clotted his curly hair.  From
Merida she had seen him unhorsed, and dragged
away in the stirrup by his frightened steed, which
had also been wounded.  With shrieks and
outcries she had tracked him by the blood for two
miles from the town, until the exhausted charger
sunk down to die, and she found her husband thus.

Colonel Cameron, on approaching, sprang from
his horse, and raised her from the ground,
entreating her to return to Merida, as night was
approaching; and to be left in so desolate a place,
was unsafe and unadvisable.  But she protested
against being separated from the corpse of her
husband; and, as it was impossible to leave her
there, Cameron gave orders to carry Mr. Evelyn's
remains to Merida.  A temporary bier was made
in the usual manner, by fastening a blanket to two
regimental pikes: in this the dead officer was
placed, and borne off by two stout Highlanders.
Mrs. Evelyn mounted her Andalusian, which
Evan Iverach had adroitly captured while it was
grazing quietly at some distance, and Cameron,
riding beside her, gallantly held her bridle rein
as they proceeded towards the city.  It was totally
dark when the brigade, forming close column of
regiments, halted in the now desolate Plaza.

The soldiers were instantly dismissed to their
several billets.

That which Ronald had received was upon the
hovel of a poor potter, residing near the convent
of San Juan; but instead of going thither, he
made straight towards the house of the old prior
de Villa Franca, at the corner of the Calle de
Guadiana, earnestly hoping, as he wended on his
way, that it had escaped the heartless ravages he
saw on every side of him.

"I will show this fiery Master Lisle of ours
that I have more than one string to my bow, as
well as the fickle Alice," he muttered aloud, and
in a tone of gaiety which I must own he did not
entirely feel.

That morning the mails had been brought up
from Lisbon, and both Louis and himself had
received letters from home; and Ronald concluded
that there was still no letter from Alice, as Louis
had, as usual, not addressed him during all that
day.  Old Mr. Stuart's letter was far from being
a satisfactory one to his son.

"Inchavon," said he, in one part of it, "has now
taken upon him the title of Lord Lysle, and has
gained a great landed property in the Lothians.
As these people rise, we old families seem to sink.
All my affairs are becoming more inextricably
involved: the rot has destroyed all my sheep at
Strathonan, and a murrain has broken out among
our black Argyleshires.  The most of the tenants
have failed to pay their rents; the farm towns of
Tilly-whumle and Blaw-wearie were burned last
week,—fifteen hundred pounds of a dead loss; and
the damned Edinburgh lawyers are multiplying
their insolent threats, their captions and homings,
for my debts there; and all here at home is going
to wreck, ruin, and the devil!  I trust that you
keep the *Hon.* Louis Lisle at a due distance: I
know you will, for my sake.  Folk, hereabout,
say his sister is to be married to Lord Hyndford,
during some part of the next month."

The last sentence Ronald repeated more than
once through his clenched teeth, as he stumbled
forward over the rough pavement of the market-place.
As he looked around him, his heart sickened
at the utter silence and desolation which
reigned every where: not a single light visible,
save that of the silver moon and twinkling stars.

As he approached the well-known mansion where
he had spent so many delightful hours, the gaunt
appearance of the gable, the roofless walls, the
fallen balconies, the shattered casements, informed
him at once that "the glory had departed."

The house had been completely gutted by fire,
and Ronald, while he gazed around him, recalled
the old tales of Sir Ian Mhor's days, when the
savage cohorts of Cumberland (Cumberland the
bloody and the merciless) were let loose over the
Scottish highlands.  In the garden, the flowerbeds
were trampled down and destroyed,—the
shrubbery laid waste,—the marble fountain was
in ruins, and the water rushing like a mountain-torrent
through Catalina's favourite walk.  The
utmost labour had been expended to ruin and
destroy every thing, Don Alvaro's rank and
bravery having rendered him particularly odious to
the soldiers of the usurper, Joseph Buonaparte.
Fragments of gilded chairs, hangings, and books
were tossing about in all directions.  Some of the
latter Ronald took up, and saw by the light of the
moon that they had belonged to Catalina's little
library, (books are a scarce commodity in Spain,)
and were her most favourite authors.  There was
the romance of "Amadis de Gaul," written by that
good and valiant knight, Vasco de Loberia, "Lopez
de Ruedas," "Armelina," "Eusenia," "Los Enganados,"
all separate works, and other dramas and
pastorals.  But one richly bound little book, printed
at Salamanca, the "Vidas de los Santos," upon
which her own hand had written her name, he kept
as a remembrance—he scarcely required one,—and
bestowing a hearty malediction on the French,
against whom he now felt the bitterest personal
enmity, he left the place with an anxious and heavy
heart, intending to question the first Español he
should meet as to the fate of the family of Villa
Franca.  He encountered several in the streets, but
none could give him the least information; and as
he was weary with the fatigues of the day, he retired
to his billet at the house of the potter.  On the
way thither, a ray of light shining through a low
barred window, and the wailing as of one in deep
distress, attracted his attention.  On looking in he
perceived the lady-like and graceful figure of
Mrs. Evelyn bending over a table, on which, muffled up
in a cavalry cloak, lay the cold remains of him she
loved with her whole heart.  A wearied dragoon,
booted and accoutred, lay asleep in one corner;
in another were grouped some Irish soldiers' wives,
smoking and sipping aquardiente, while they
listened in silence to the sorrowful moanings of the
young lady, and the lowly muttered yet earnest
prayer which a poor Cistertian padre, almost worn
out with years and privation, offered up for the
soul of the deceased, around whose bier he had
placed several candles, which he had
consecrated by lighting them at the shrine of San
Juan.  The chamber was ruinous and desolate,
without either fire or furniture.  It was in sooth a
sad and strange situation for the poor girl, whose
fair head rested on the bosom of the slain; and
Ronald, as he turned away, thought of what
her gay and fashionable friends at home would
have said could they have seen her then,—bowed
down in absorbing sorrow, without a friend to
comfort her, and surrounded by squalid misery
and desolation.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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About day-break next morning Evelyn was
buried hastily in a grassy spot among the ruins
of the castle of Merida,—the alcalde having
piously objected to the burial of a *heretic* in
consecrated ground.  Without other shroud but his
tattered and bloody uniform,—without other coffin
than his large military cloak,—he was lowered
into the hastily made tomb.  The chaplain of the
brigade performed the burial service, and he was
hurriedly covered up.  A volley of carbines from
his troop, and the sobs of his young widow as
she stood by, leaning on the arm of Fassifern, were
the last requiem of the English dragoon.





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.. _`THE OUT-PICQUET`:

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   CHAPTER IV.


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   THE OUT-PICQUET.

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..

   |    "Then she is still alive:—
   |  My lovely Lucrece in a Roman camp,
   |  Midst hostile Tarquins!  Would she had been slain!"
   |                                      *Fate of Capua: a Tragedy.*

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The *patron* of Ronald's billet could not give him
any information about Donna Catalina, or any of
the inmates of her mansion,—the hotel de Villa
Franca, as the citizens named it.  He knew that it
had been occupied by the French, whose commanding
officer quartered himself upon it as the
best house in the place, and that his soldiers had
burnt it when they saw that they should be
compelled to abandon Merida, on the second advance
of the British.  From the first occupation of the
town by the enemy, none of the Villa Franca family
had been seen.  This was all the information he
could obtain, and Ronald was led to conclude
that Catalina and her cousin had escaped, and
might be at Majorga, or some other town on the
Spanish frontiers.

The poor patron was a potter by trade, and
made brown earthenware crocks and jars, which
he retailed through Estremadura in panniers slung
on the back of a mule; but he earned barely sufficient
to support his wife and family.  Nevertheless,
to show their loyalty to King Ferdinand, and their
gratitude to his allies, the *patrona* had, by dint of
much exertion, procured for Ronald on the morning
of his departure what was considered in Spain a
tolerable breakfast.

On the wooden table was placed a large crock
full of boiled pork and peas, opposite to which
stood a jar of goat's milk, plates of eggs, dried
raisins, and white bread,—even coffee was on the
table; a display altogether of viands that raised
the wonder and increased the appetites of the six
hungry children who crowded round the board,
holding up their little brown hands with many
exclamations of wonder, and cries to their *madre*
and *padre* to help them; but their parents were
intent on doing the honours of the table to the
noble caballero.

In one corner of the miserable apartment lay
the glossy hide of an English horse.  Ronald, by
some particular spots, recognised it to be that of
Eveleyn's charger, about the flaying of which the
host had been employed since day-break, intending
as he said to make it into caps and shoes for his
children.  The latter were all swarthy and active,
but sadly disguised by rags and filth, which
obscured the natural beauty of their Spanish faces
and figures, excepting one little girl, about ten
years of age, who appeared to be her mother's pet,
and consequently was more neatly dressed.  Ronald
was often amused at the looks of wonder with
which this little creature watched him while
eating—keeping at a distance as if he was an ogre; but
when she became more familiar, venturing to touch
the black feathers of his bonnet and other parts of
his glittering dress, though always keeping close
to the short skirt of the madre's petticoat, as if she
feared being eaten up, or carried off for some future
meal, by the strange caballero, the richness of
whose uniform filled the little boys with wonder
and envy.

At last, by dint of much entreaty, she permitted
herself to be drawn towards him.  Raising up her
radiant eyes, she took a copper crucifix from her
bosom, and asked him if the people in his country
wore a thing like that.  On his telling her no,
she broke away from his arm, and crying, "*O mi
madre*,—the heretic! the devil!" hid her face in
her mother's skirt; while the rest of the children
shrunk around their father, grasping his legs for
safety, and even *he* seemed much discomposed.
Not liking the idea of being regarded as a bugbear,
Ronald, in the grey day-light, finished his breakfast
as speedily as possible, and was hurried in
doing so by the warning bugles for the march.

Ranald Dhu and his six pipers blowing the
gathering, in concert with the drums of other corps
beating the 'assembly,' in the Plaza, soon followed,
and he left the house of the hospitable but
superstitious potter, who would not accept a single
maravedi for the entertainment he had given,—a
circumstance which Ronald did not regret, his
pecuniary affairs not being then in a very flourishing
condition, as the troops were three months
pay in arrear.

When the second division approached Almendralejo,
they found that it had been abandoned by
the enemy in the night.  As on the march of the
preceding day, the troops suffered greatly by thirst
and the intense heat of the weather; and as the
regiments passed through in succession, the
inhabitants were employed for hours handing water
through their barred windows[\*] to the soldiers,
while crowds in the streets were kept running to
and fro from the fountains with all sorts of vessels,
as if a general conflagration had taken place.

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[\*] The lower windows in Spain are all barred.

.. vspace:: 2

"*Viva Ferdinando! muera Napoleon!*" cried a
soft voice from the balcony of a house near, the
*Casa de Ayuntamiento*, the tall spire of which is
visible for leagues around.

"Who can that handsome girl be,—she with
the tight boddice and braided hair?" asked Stuart
of Alister, as the corps halted, for the usual rest
of five minutes, in front of the town-house.

"Handsome girl!  How should I know, Ronald.
Where?"

"Leaning over the antique stone balcony: she
has tossed a chaplet among the men at the other
flank of the company."

"And one fellow has placed it on the point of
his bayonet.  That is the Senora Maria I told
you of."

"What! the daughter of the *abogado*?"

"The same.  I used to meet her often at the
Prado and at church, when we lay here.  Her true
knight, Angus Mackie, has obtained the wreath,
I perceive."

"A handsome girl indeed!  The flowers were
intended for him, doubtless."

"And there is the *abogado* himself," exclaimed
Macdonald.  "What the devil is the old fellow about?"

While they were speaking, a fierce-looking little
Spaniard, with a bald head and large grey
moustaches, wearing an old-fashioned doublet of black
cloth slashed on the breast with red, rushed into
the balcony, and grasping the young lady by the
arm, drew her roughly into the house, dashing
to the casement with such violence that several
panes of glass were shattered,—a damage, which
he was observed a minute afterwards to be
inspecting with a rueful countenance, glass being
an expensive article in Spain.  He withdrew with
a fierce aspect, as a loud laugh of derision arose
from the companies of Highlanders in the street.

To describe the wearying marches performed by
the troops under Sir Rowland Hill's command in
that province of Spain, would be at once useless
and uninteresting.  Scouring the country of the
enemy, they had many a march and counter-march
between Merida, La Zarza, La Querena,
Medellin, and Don Benito.  From the last two
the enemy were driven, but not without some
fighting, especially at Don Benito.  During that
week often on the march, as they traversed the
lofty sierras or level plains, they heard, mellowed
by distance, the roar of the far artillery, which
announced that the strong city of Badajoz had
been besieged by Lord Wellington, by whose
orders Sir Rowland's division advanced towards
that place, to form the covering army.

On the evening when it was known the fortress
would be stormed, while the greatest anxiety
pervaded every breast for the success of the great
attempt, Hill's division halted and encamped near
the village of Lobon just about sunset.  Making
a corresponding movement to form a junction with
the second division, Sir Thomas Graham, "the
hero of Barossa," hovered with his troops in the
direction of the heights of Albuera, ready to
concentrate and repel together any attempt which
the great Duke of Dalmatia with his legions
might make to relieve the beleaguered garrison of
General Phillipon at Badajoz, which was a few
miles distant, in the rear of the hamlet of Lobon.

Although the troops encamped, all were in
readiness to march at a moment's notice to
sustain the besieging army, if they should fail in
carrying the place.  Scarcely had they halted,
before the grand guards of cavalry were formed,
and the out-picquets, to be furnished from the
first brigade, paraded and despatched to their
several posts where pointed out by the major
of brigade.

With some other officers this exciting duty
fell upon Ronald, who, with a picquet of twenty
Highlanders, was directed to march to a given
distance into the plain in front of Lobon, halt his
party, and throw forward his chain of advanced
sentries, extending them so that they could keep
up the line of communication with those of other
picquets on the right and left, and to double
them, should the weather thicken during the
night.

"By what shall I know where to halt the
main body of my picquet, major?" asked Ronald,
looking rather blankly towards the waste
expanse of desert plain, which extends for more
than seven leagues around Badajoz.  "It is as
level as the very sea: nothing bounds it but the
distant heights of Albuera."

"March *on* that star," said W—— technically,
as he raised himself in his stirrups, and
pointed towards a bright planet which was twinkling
where the lingering streaks of yellow edged
the dark horizon, glowing like heated bars of
gold through openings in the dusky masses of
clouds, which appeared to rest o'er Albuera, the
position of Graham.  "You will march straight
upon it, and halt your picquet where you find a
man's head stuck upon a pole."

"Upon a pole!"

"Ay.  Queer mark, is it not?"

"Very.  I am to halt there?"

"A dismal thing to have beside one for a whole
night,—in a place as dreary, and eerie too, as
the pass of Drumouchter."

"Is it the head of a murderer?"

"Yes.  His body is buried beneath it,—a
common practice in this part of the country, I
believe."

"A man's head used to be quite a common
mark when I was in Egypt with Sir Ralph
Abercrombie," chimed in Campbell, who had stretched
himself on the dewy grass near.  "I have seen a
corps of turbaned Turks, reviewed near
Alexandria, using the spiked heads of Frenchmen
as we do our red camp-colours, as points to
wheel on."

"You had better take up your ground,
Mr. Stuart," said the brigade major, to cut short
any intended story, "and remember carefully
to make yourself master of your situation, by
examining, not only the space you actually
occupy, but the heights within musquet-shot, the
roads and paths leading to or near the post,
ascertaining their breadth and practicability for
cavalry and cannon, and to ensure a ready and
constant communication with the adjoining posts and
videttes,—in the day by signals, in the night by
patrols," &c.; and the old fellow did not cease
his long quotation from the "Regulations," which
he had gotten by rote, until compelled to do so
by want of breath.

When he made an end, and had ridden off, Ronald
marched his picquet in the direction pointed
out, keeping as a guide the star already mentioned.
He soon found the halting-place, and there,
sure enough, was a human head placed upon a
pole about ten feet high; and a more grisly, hairy,
ferocious, and terrible face than it presented,
human eyes never beheld.  In ferocity its expression
was that of Narvaez Cifuentes, but it was fixed
and rigid,—the eyes glassy and bursting from
the sockets,—the jaws wide and open, displaying
a formidable row of large white teeth.  It
was much decayed by the heat of the weather,
although it had been only three days exposed;
and as the breeze blew swiftly past, it caused the
long damp tresses of black hair to wave around
the livid brow with an effect at once strange
and terrible.

Having posted his line of sentries to the best
advantage, showing them in what direction they
were to keep a "sharp look-out,"—the direction
where Marshal Soult lay,—he returned to the
spot, where, stretched upon the turf among the
rest of the soldiers, he lay listening to the distant
thunder of artillery, and watching the lurid light
which filled the horizon, continually increasing
and waning as the tide of conflict turned on the
battlements of Badajoz.  More vividly at times the
red light flashed across the sky, and louder at times
came the boom of the heavy cannon, as the salvoes
were discharged against the walls of the doomed
city; and while the soldiers looked and listened,
they thought of the blood and slaughter in which
they might soon bear a part, should the present
besiegers fail in the assault.  Although at that
hour hundreds—ay, thousands, were being swept
into eternity, the soldiers cared not for it,
apparently; many a tale was told at which they
laughed heartily, and many a reminiscence narrated of
Bergen-op-Zoom, Egmont-op-Zee, Mandora, Coruna,
and other fields and countless frays, in which
some of them had borne a part.

It was a fine moonlight night: the most distant
part of the plain could be distinctly seen, and
the myriads of stars shone joyously, as if to rival
the radiance of their queen, while every blade of
grass, and every leaf of the scattered shrubbery,
so common on Spanish plains, glittered as if edged
with liquid silver.  From the dark village of
Lobon, and the white glimmering tents of the
encampment, arose the hum of voices; from the
plain through which wound the Guadiana, came
the murmur of its current; and save these, no
sound broke the stillness of the hour but the
roar of Badajoz, which growled and sounded afar
like thunder among distant hills.

While Ronald was regaling himself upon a
mess, consisting of a few ounces of ration-beef
fried in a camp-kettle lid, with a handful of
garbanzos or beans, which Evan had brought him
from the adjacent village, his attention was
aroused by the glitter of steel on the plain,
advancing, as he imagined, from the direction where
Soult was known to be, and from which he was
expected to make some demonstration to relieve
General Phillipon's garrison.

Ronald was instantly on the alert.  He sprang
to his feet,—ordered the picquet to "stand to
their arms," himself advancing a little to the
front, to reconnoitre.

Perhaps there is no situation more exciting to
any officer, especially a young one, than out-picquet
duty: he is left to act entirely for himself,—to
rely on his own judgment, and so much
depends upon him in many ways, that he is apt to
grow bewildered.  The responsibility is indeed
great, when the very fate of a kingdom may
depend on the alertness of his sentinels, and the
posts he has assigned to them.

Fully alive to all the duties of his situation,
Ronald moved anxiously to the front, and beheld
a dark group advancing furiously along the plain
at full gallop, making straight for his post, with
steel casques and tall lances glittering; but that
they were only six armed horsemen he could see
distinctly, and the cry of "*Amigos! amigos a la
guerra de la Independencia!  Viva España!  Viva
España!*" in pure Castilian, assured him that
they were Spaniards; and he sprang forward just
in time to arrest the arm of his advanced sentinel,
who had levelled his musquet to fire, a
circumstance which would have caused the whole
encamped division to get under arms.

Another moment, and the strangers came up,
the hoofs of their panting steeds shaking the earth,
and tearing the turf as they were suddenly reined
in, while the white foam fell from their dilated
nostrils.  A glance showed Ronald that they were
six lances of Don Alvaro's troop, escorting a party
of Spanish ladies, who to his no small surprise
were all mounted like men, wearing wide trowsers
and broad flapping sombreros, with veils and long
waving plumes.  Although this mode of riding
surprised the Scot very much, it is one extremely
common in some parts of Spain.  Raising his
hand to his bonnet, he inquired which way they
had come?

"Ah!  Don Ronald,—have you quite forgotten
me, and the sad night we spent in the diabolical
cavern at La Nava?" exclaimed Pedro Gomez,
dropping the point of his lance, and causing his
mettlesome steed to curvet in a style more like
unto a knight of chivalry than a serjeant of
dragoons.

"How!  Pedro, my bon camarado, is this you?
Why—how—which way are you riding?"

"Commanding an escort, *senor officiale*;
travelling with four ladies of our regiment from
Segura de Leon to Idanda Nova, to keep them out
of harm's way."

"And the *senoritas*—"

"*Senoritas?  Pho!  Somos todos hombres*," said
one contemptuously in Spanish.

"All men?" reiterated Ronald in surprise.

A burst of laughter from the fair speaker
followed; and bending her face close to his,—so
close that her soft curls fell upon it, she added,
"Inesella de Truxillo.  I knew not that my features
were so easily forgotten, even by the admirers
of my cousin."

"Senora, how happy am I to see you here, and
in safety!  The ravages at Merida led me to
expect the worst.  And your cousin, Donna
Catalina,—she is of course, with you?" said
Ronald, looking anxiously at the faces of the
other three ladies.

"O most unfortunate Catalina!" exclaimed
Inesella, beginning to weep, "I fear she is for
ever lost to us."

"How, Donna Inesella!  Speak for Heaven's
sake!" said Ronald, while his heart fluttered with
agitation.

"*O Juan de Dios!* be her protection.  She
was carried off by the enemy, while I escaped
in consequence of the Count d'Erlon's mandate.
The house was destroyed by fire, and our miserable
uncle, the poor dear old padre, perished in it."

A deep malediction was growled by the escort,
who reined their horses back a few paces.

"The demons! and by whose order was that done?"

"Their *chef d'escadre*, the Baron de Clappourknuis,
or some such name."

"He is now a prisoner in the castle of Belem;
but Catalina—"

"Was torn from my arms by force.  A field-officer
of the French guards carried her off across
the bow of his saddle; I heard her fearful cries
as he swam his horse across the Guadiana, on
the night that the British returned and attacked
Merida.  I have been wandering about in several
places since then, and am anxious to reach Idanda
Nova, Idanha a Velha, or any place of safety,
until all this terrible work is over.  Mother of
God! look towards Badajoz!  The sky seems all
on fire!  Alas! the poor soldiers—"

"Has Don Alvaro heard of his sister's fate?"

"O yes, senor.  Poor Alvaro!  I have had
sad work cheering him under the misfortune.  He
is now my husband," added the graceful donna,
blushing deeply, while her usually soft voice sunk
into a whisper.

"Oh, indeed!  I am most happy, Donna Inesella,
to hear——  But how could you celebrate so
joyous an event while so great a mystery hangs over
the fate of poor Catalina?'

"O Don Ronald!  I know not," replied the
young lady, confusedly.  "What a very strange
question to ask."

"Pardon me, senora!"

"*Santa Maria*!  I am not angry with you;
but Don Alvaro is so very impetuous, and fearing
the chance of war——  But ah! senor, we must
bid you adieu if we would reach the city of Elvas
before dawn, and 'tis many good leagues from
Lobon."

The other ladies, who had become impatient
at the delay, now proposed to ride on, and the
arrival of the field-officer on duty, to visit the
out-picquet, put an end to the conversation.  Ronald
briefly pointed out to them, to the best of his
knowledge, the safest road to Elvas, and the one
by which bands of roving guerillas were least
likely to be met with; and then hurried off to his
post, while the ladies and their escort galloped in
the direction of Lobon.

Ronald watched the helmets and spears of the
troopers, and the waving feathers of the ladies,
as long as they were in sight; and so negligent
was he during the inspection of his picquet, that,
to use a mess-room phrase, he gained a hearty
rowing from old Lieutenant-colonel Macdonald,
the senior major of his regiment, who was mighty
indignant at the absence of mind he displayed,
and the general answers he gave to questions
asked of him.  But it was not to be wondered
at: his thoughts were with Catalina, and his
bosom was a prey to a greater degree of anxiety and
uneasiness than he had felt for a very long time.
That Catalina, the proud, the gentle, and the
beautiful, should be a captive in the hands of so
unscrupulous an enemy as the French, subjected
to their insolence, and perhaps barbarity, filled
him with thoughts that stung him almost to madness;
and, finding it impossible to sleep, although
the grass was soft as velvet, and the bright moon
was shining gloriously, he remained walking to
and fro between the piles of arms until daylight,
watching the waning blaze of Badajoz, and
listening to the noise of the assault as the
night-wind, sweeping over the plain, brought it to his
ear.  Intently he watched the light; and when,
towards morning, the boom of "the red artillery"
died away, he almost hoped that the assault had
failed, and that an order would arrive for the
second division to advance to support the besiegers,
that he might have an opportunity of meeting
hand to hand the enemy, against whom he had
conceived a peculiar feeling of detestation; or
that he might have the desperate honour of leading
a forlorn-hope, an affair, by the by, of which
he had as yet but a very slight conception.  The
din of war, which had lasted the live-long night,
ceased at day-break, and the flashes of cannon
and musquetry were no longer seen on the
ramparts of the capital of Estremadura, in the
direction of which all eyes were anxiously turned,
although it is not distinctly visible from Lobon.

About sun-rise a British staff-officer spurred his
horse furiously into the encampment.  He was
covered with dust, and even blood; his plumes
were gone, and his whole appearance told of the
part he had acted in the dangers of the past
night, and the speed with which he had ridden.  It
was towards Ronald's picquet that he advanced.

"What news from Badajoz?" cried the latter.

"Glorious! glorious!" replied he, evidently in
a fierce state of exultation, full of wild
excitement and tumult, as one might be supposed to be
who had spent such a night of accumulated
horrors, while he checked with some difficulty the
headlong speed of his jaded charger.  "I have
not a moment to spare: where are the quarters
of General Hill?"

"Our troops have carried the place, then?"

"Again, again, and again the columns were
repulsed with frightful slaughter; but again and
again the assault was renewed, fighting as we
alone can fight.  Badajoz is in ruins,—but it is
ours; the breaches and ditches are filled with
the dead and the dying.  Phillipon, retiring to
fort San Christoval, surrendered his garrison
prisoners of war this morning at day-break, after
doing all that mortal men could do!"  A cheer
arose from the picquet, who crowded round.

"And our loss—"

"Four thousand killed, wounded, and missing,—rough
calculation; that of the enemy five
thousand."

"Nine thousand in one night!"

"A strange trade is war, truly! but a night
such as the last is an era in a man's life-time.  Sir
Rowland's quarters, where are they?'

"The cottage yonder—"

"With the vine-covered chimney and broad eaves?"

"Under the chesnuts."

"Thanks.  Fighting is in store for you in the
neighbourhood of Truxillo; you will know it all
in good time.  Adieu."

Dashing his gory rowels into the flanks of his
horse, he galloped towards the tented camp.
Immediately on his reaching it, a tremendous cheer
arose among the soldiers, who came rushing from
their tents and cantonments in the village.
Infantry chakoes, grenadier caps, and Highland
bonnets were tossed into the air,—caught, and
tossed up again.  The regimental bands played
"Rule Britannia," and other national airs; while,
amid the shouts, cheers, and rolling of drums,
were heard the pipers of the Highland regiments
blowing, "There's nae folk like our ain folk," as
they paraded to and fro before the quarters of the
general, who, to increase the rejoicing, ordered an
extra ration of rum to be served out to every man
on the occasion by the commissary.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FLAG OF TRUCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FLAG OF TRUCE.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Yet, be it known, had bugles blown,
   |    Or sign of war been seen,
   |  Those bands, so fair together ranged,
   |  Those hands, so frankly interchanged,
   |    Had dyed with gore the green."
   |                            *Last Minstrel*, canto v.

.. vspace:: 2

About a fortnight after this, Sir Rowland Hill
reviewed his division of the army near the town
of Almendralejo, so often mentioned in preceding
chapters.  In the evening, a strong detachment,
consisting of the first brigade of infantry, part of
the second brigade, a body of British cavalry,
artillery, and Portuguese caçadores, were selected
from the division, and marched an hour before
day-break next morning, pursuing the road to
Madrid under the command of the general
himself, who left Sir William Erskine in charge of
the remainder of the division, which continued in
cantonments at Almendralejo.

That some great enterprise was on foot there
could be no doubt, from the secrecy maintained
by the general as to the object of the march,
the solitary places through which their route lay
after leaving the Madrid road, and the deserted
places, cork woods, chesnut thickets, &c. in which
they concealed their bivouacs at night.  Great
excitement existed among the troops, and many
were the surmises as to what might be the
ultimate object of this sudden expedition, until it
became known that to force the pass of Miravete,
and destroy certain forts erected at the bridge of
Almarez on the Tagus, were the intentions of the
enterprising leader.

On the evening of the 15th May, the troops
destined for this particular service entered the
city of Truxillo, the place from which Don Balthazzar[\*]
takes his title.  It is, like most Spanish
cities, situated on a rocky eminence, contains
about four thousand inhabitants, a handsome
Plaza, and several churches.  Ronald was billeted on
the very house in which the famous conqueror of
America, Pizarro, was born, and the mouldered
coat-armorial of whose noble family yet appeared
over the entrance-door.  He had just finished a
repast of hashed mutton and garlic,—time had
reconciled him to the latter,—and was discussing
a few jugs of *Xeres seco* with his host, when the
serjeant-major of the Gordon Highlanders,
tapping at the door with his cane, warned him to
join Captain Stuart's out-picquet as a
supernumerary subaltern.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] The Condé is still alive.  I saw his name mentioned in a
French paper some months ago.

.. vspace:: 2

His host, Don Gonzago de Conquesta, a lineal
decendant of Pizarro, was detailing the once great
honours of his now decayed house when this
unwelcome intelligence was brought to Stuart, who,
snatching his cloak and sword, vented a malediction
on the adjutant, and departed in no pleasant
mood, bearing with him a couple of bottles of the
*Xeres seco*, which were pressed upon him by Don
Gonzago, who said that he never went on duty
(he was a *Capitan de Cazadores*) without plenty
of liquor.  It was a lesson he had learned in his
campaigns "under the great General Liniers, at
Buenos Ayres, in 1807."  The out-picquet, which
Ronald departed to join, was posted near the river
Almonte, at the base of the large mountain,
on the summit and sides of which appeared the
three divisions of Truxillo,—the castle, the city,
and the town, as they are styled.  And often, as he
hurried down the hill, he looked back at the
picturesque Spanish city, with its gothic spires and
belfries, its embattled fortress, lines of frowning
ramparts built on masses of rock, and its thousand
casements, gleaming like burnished gold in the
light of the setting sun.

It was a beautiful evening: the air was cool
and balmy,—the sky blue and cloudless, and the
clear atmosphere showed vividly the various tints
of the extensive landscape, where yellow fields,
green thickets, and the windings of the Almonte
stretched away far in the distance.

The chain of sentinels were posted along the
sedgy banks of the river, and on a green grassy
knoll beside it, amid groves where the yellow
orange and clustering grape were ripening in the
sun, sat Ronald and the officer commanding the
picquet, Captain Stuart of the 50th regiment,
discussing the flasks of *Xeres seco*.  While they
were conversing on the probable issue of the
intended attack on the castle of Miravete and the
French forts at Almarez, a sentry by the riverside
passed the word of alarm, that some of the
enemy were in motion on the other side of the
stream.

Far down the Almonte, advancing over the level
ground from the direction of the Madrid road,
appeared four figures on foot, and the glitter of
polished metal showed that they were armed men.

"Mr. Stuart," said the captain of the picquet,
"take with you a file of men and a bugler, and
see who these may be.  You may cross here,—I
suppose the river is fordable.  Should you see
any thing suspicious further off, let the bugle-boy
sound, to warn us."

"This promises to be an adventure," said
Ronald, fixing his sword in his belt, and preparing
to start.  "A flag of truce, probably, sent from
the castle of Miravete."

"Most likely: they have come from that direction.
Sir Rowland will be ill pleased to think the
enemy know of his vicinity.  But as these
communications are generally only for the purpose of
reconnoitring and gaining intelligence, you must
be careful to frustrate any such intentions by
answering reservedly all questions, and beware that
their cunning does not out-flank your caution."

"Fear not: man to man, if they—"

"Nay: should it be a flag of truce, you must
receive it with all attention and courtesy; but you
had better move off, and meet them as far from
here as possible."

"There are two stout fellows of my own
company here; I will take them with me.  Ewen
Macpherson Mackie, unpile your arms, and
follow me.  Look sharp, there, men!"

Accompanied by two sturdy Highlanders, and
a bugler of the 50th foot, he crossed the Almonte,
which took them up to the waist, and scrambling
over the opposite bank, advanced towards the
strangers without feeling much discomfort from
the wetting,—fording a river being with them a
daily occurrence.

Four French soldiers appeared to be coming
straight towards them, through the middle of a
waving field of yellow corn, treading it down in a
remorseless manner, that would have put any bluff
English farmer or douce gude-man of the Lothians
at his wits' end, had he seen them.  It appeared to
be a toilsome pathway, as it rose breast-high, and
in some places hid them altogether, save the tops
of their grenadier caps.  On gaining the skirts of
the field, they broke their way through the lofty
vine-trellis which covered the road like a long
green arbour, and could now be perfectly
discerned; and as they neared each other, Ronald
felt a degree of excitement and pleasure roused
within him for which it was not difficult to
account, this being his first meeting with the enemy
in arms.

Two of them were tall French grenadiers in
dark great-coats, adorned with large red worsted
epaulets, wearing heavy bear-skin caps and hairy
knapsacks, and had their bayonets fixed on their
long musquets.

In front advanced an officer wearing the same
sort of cap, and the rich uniform of the old Guard.
A little tambour, with his brass drum slung on
his back, trotted beside him.

"Halt!" exclaimed Ronald, when they were
about four hundred yards off.  "With ball-cartridge
prime and load!"

The performance of this action was seen by the
strangers.  The little tambour beat a long roll on
his drum, and the officer, halting his file of
grenadiers, displayed a white handkerchief and
advanced alone.  Ronald did so likewise, and they
met at an equal distance from their respective
parties.  The officer (whose brown cheek bore
witness of service) wore the little gold cross
that showed he was a *Chevalier de la Legion
d'Honneur*, and raising his hand to his grenadier
cap in salute, he pulled from the breast of his
coat a long sealed despatch.

"*Monsieur officier*," said he, "here is a
communication from Marshal Soult to General Sir
Rowland Hill, which I have the honour to request
you will see forwarded."

Ronald bowed and took the letter, surprised to
hear such pure English spoken by a Frenchman;
while the latter unslung a metal flask which hung
at his waist-belt, to share its contents in friendship.

"*Croix Dieu!*" he exclaimed, starting back
with a look of recognition and surprise.  "Ah,
Monsieur Stuart, *mon ami*, have you forgotten
me quite?  Do you not remember Victor
D'Estouville and the castle of Edinburgh?"

Ronald gazed upon him in astonishment.

"D'Estouville! is this indeed you?"

"I am happy to say it is; who else could it be,
monsieur?  I was very tired of being a *prisonnier
de guerre* in that gloomy bastile in the Scottish
capital; but an exchange of prisoners took place
soon after you left it, and now I am again a free
man, fighting the battles of the Emperor with the
eagle over my brow, and wearing my belted sword.
Brave work it is,—but I am as miserable now, as
I was then."

"Hard fighting and no promotion, perhaps?"

"We have plenty of both in the service of the
great Emperor.  I am now major in the battalion
of *the* Guard."

"Allow me to congratulate you.  And—and—what
was the lady's name?  Diane de Montmichel?"

"*C'est le diable!*" muttered he, while his cheek
grew pale as death; but the emotion instantly
passed away, and a bold and careless look replaced it.

"D'Estouville, you did not find her faithless,
I hope?"

"I found her only *Madame la Colonelle*, as we
say in our service."

"The wife of your colonel!  How much I regret
to hear it.  The devil!  I think women are all
alike perfidious."

"Perfidious indeed, Monsieur Stuart, as many
a husband and lover, on his return from captivity,
finds to his cost.  But I mean to revenge myself
on the whole sex, and care no more for the best of
them, than for the meanest *fille de joie* that ever
was horsed through a camp on the wooden steed.
On my return to France, I hastened to the valley
of Lillebonne, but it was no longer a paradise to
me.  My sisters were all married to knaves who
cared nothing for me, and a grassy grave in the
church-yard was all that remained to me of my
dear mother.  But *miséricorde! la belle Diane* was
no longer there,—she had become the wife of my
colonel, the Baron de Clappourknuis, forgetting
poor Victor D'Estouville, her first love, (that which
romancers make such a fuss about); he who had
preferred her before all the maidens of the valley
of Lillebonne,—and there they are numerous and
as beautiful as the roses."

"Learn to forget her, D'Estouville; you may
find it—"

"She is forgotten as my love.  *Croix Dieu!*
nay, more; she is forgiven."

"And she is now Baroness Clappourknuis?"

"*Oui, monsieur*,—such I suppose she would
rather be, with the boorish old colonel for her
husband, than the wife of Victor D'Estouville, a
poor subalterne as I was then."

"Certes, you have got rapid promotion.  And
you are really now a major?" said Ronald, feeling
a little chagrin.  "I am still only an ensign,
sub-lieutenant, I believe you style it."

"*Diable!* your promotion is long of coming,
especially in these times, when heads are broken
like egg-shells.  But I would rather have my
peace of mind, than promotion to the baton of
a marshal of the empire."

"Then you have not forgotten her, although
you so often protest you have?'

"I have forgotten to love her, at least.  *Peste*!
I am quite cured of that passion.  I can regard
her, and speak of her with the utmost nonchalance;
and as a proof, I volunteered to bring this
letter from the Duke of Dalmatia to your general,
relative to procuring the release of the Baron
my *chef*, by exchanging him for some British
prisoners captured at Villa Garcia, where, by some
misadventure, our rear-guard was so severely cut
up by your heavy cavalry under Sir Stapleton
Cotton.  You see, Monsieur Stuart, I am so
calmed down in this matter, that I can, even
without a pang, negotiate for the restoration of
her husband to her arms."

At that moment a bugle from Captain Stuart's
post sounded, as if warning Ronald to retire.

"A bugle call," said D'Estouville; "the officer
commanding the out-picquet has lost his patience."

"I must now bid you farewell; we may soon
meet again, but in less pleasant circumstances."

"Then you *do* mean to carry Miravete?" said
the Frenchman with sudden animation.

"I have not said so," replied Ronald coldly.
"I merely said we might meet—"

"Not unlikely, if your general comes further
this way.  The forts of Napoleon and Ragusa,
covering the bridge of the Tagus at Almarez, and
the town of Miravete, defended as they are by the
bravest hearts of the old Guard, might bar the
passage of Xerxes with his host."

"But surely not against the capturers of
Badajoz and Ciudad Rodrigo?" said Ronald gently,
with a smile.

"*Peste! oui*.  These were misadventures, and
the great Emperor will soon make us amends.
There was something wrong in this last affair
at Badajoz; yet the soldiers fought well, and
Phillipon, their general, is, as we say, *guerrier
sans peur et sans reproche*," replied the Frenchman,
while a flush of indignant shame crossed his
bronzed cheek, and he twisted up his heavy
moustache with an air of military pride and
ludicrous confusion.

Again the bugle sounded from the other side of
the river, warning them to part.  D'Estouville
uncorked his flask, and filling up the stopper,
which held about a wine-glass, with brandy,
presented it to Ronald, and they drank to each other.
The two grenadiers of the Guard, their tambour,
the two Highlanders, and the young bugler, were
now beckoned to advance, and D'Estouville shared
the contents of his flask among them, while they
shook hands all round heartily, and regarded
each other's uniform, accoutrements, and bronzed
visages with evident curiosity.

"We have drunk to the health of your General
Hill.  *C'est un vieux routier*, as we Frenchmen
say," observed D'Estouville, replacing his empty
flask.  "As for your leader, Monsieur Wellington,
I cannot say I admire him: he is not the man to
gain the love of the soldier.  No medals,—no
ribands,—no praise in the grand bulletin,—no
crosses like *this* won under his command.  *Vive
l'Empereur*!  The great Napoleon is the man for
these,—the man for a soldier to live and die under.
But I must bid you farewell—without returning
what you so kindly lent me in the castle of Edinburgh."

"I beg you will not mention it."

"There is little use in doing so, all the gold
I have being on my shoulders.  *Nom d'un pape!*
never will I forget your kindness.  But I hope
your general has no intention of beating up our
quarters at Almarez?"

"I have not heard that such is his intention,"
said Ronald, colouring at the equivocal nature of
his reply.

"We are very comfortable there at present;
quite country-quarters, in fact."

"How! are you stationed there?"

"I am commandant of the forts of the bridge.
A wing of my own battalion of the Guard form
part of the garrison.  But we must part now,
monsieur.  How dark the evening has become!
Almarez is a long way off among the mountains,
and we shall barely reach it by to-morrow.  I am
anxious to return and console a certain lady there,
who has, I suppose, been pining very much in my
absence."

"Indeed!  'Tis no wonder, then, that Diane de
Montmichel is so easily forgotten."

"*Peste*!  I am executing but a part of my
grand plot of vengeance against the sex," replied
the other gaily.  "I am a droll fellow, monsieur,
but quite the one for a soldier.  The young
creature is superbly beautiful.  I captured her at
a town near this a few weeks ago, and carried her
to Almarez, to enliven my quarters there.  But
*diable!* she is ever drooping like a broken lily,
weeping, and upbraiding me in Spanish; but I
must make a bold effort, when I return, to carry
her heart by escalade.  I have half won the
outworks already, I believe.  *Soldats!*" cried he,
turning quickly round, "*portez vos armes;
demi-tour à droite,—marche!*"

He touched his cap and went off with his party,
saying, in a loud and laughing tone, "Adieu, *mon
ami*; when I return to Almarez, I shall speak of
you to *la belle Cataline*."

Ronald, who had listened to his last observations
with some emotion, started at the name
he mentioned, and would have recalled him; but
a long, loud, and angry bugle-blast from the
out-picquet compelled him to retire and recross the
Almonte, but he cast many an anxious glance
after the dark and lessening figures of
D'Estouville and his soldiers, as they toiled their way
through the field of tall corn.

The evening had now given place to the night,
the last trace of day had faded from the
mountainous ridge of the Lina, and the waning moon
was shining coldly and palely above the spires
and castle of Truxillo.

"Mr. Stuart," said one of the soldiers, as they
marched along under the dark shadows of the
thick and gloomy vine-trellis, "if I micht daur to
advise, it wadna be amiss to ask that chield with
the sark owre his claes, what he means by
followin' us aboot, as he has dune, glintin' and
glidin' here and there in the gloaming."

"Who—where, Macpherson?"

"Under the vine-trees, on your richt hand, sir."

Ronald now perceived, for the first time, a priest
in a light grey cassock or gown, which enveloped
his whole body, keeping pace with them—taking
step for step, at a short distance.

"He has been close beside ye, sir," continued
the soldier, "the haill time ye were speaking to
the Frenchman,—listening and glowering wi' een
like a gosshawk, although he aye keepit himsel
sae close amang the leaves o' the bushes, that you
couldna see him as we did."

"Do you really say so?  What can the fellow's
object be?  By the colour of his robe, he looks
like one of the Franciscans of Merida," said
Ronald, considerably interested while he watched
the priest narrowly, and saw that he was evidently
moving in time with them, but keeping himself
concealed as much as possible among the poles
of the trellis-work, and the vines which were
twisted around them.

"Holloa, Senor Padre, holloa!" cried Stuart.

But no sooner did he speak, than the mysterious
padre glided away, and, as any monk of romance
would have done, disappeared, and no further
trace could they find of him at that time.  Many
were the surmises of the soldiers about the
matter, and Ewen Macpherson, a Gael from Loch
Oich, gave decidedly his opinion that "it was
something no cannie."  But the affair passed
immediately from the mind of Ronald, whose
thoughts were absorbed in the idea that Donna
Catalina was a prisoner in the hands of the
French.  It roused a thousand stirring and
harrowing emotions within him; and forgetting that
he was observed, he often muttered to himself,
and grasped his sword with energy, as they
hurried along.

Fording the Almonte again, they clambered up
the bank, and on gaining the grassy knoll
Ronald presented Soult's letter to Captain Stuart,
from whom he endured a very disagreeable
cross-questioning as to what his long conversation with
the Frenchman had been about.  He found his
sentiments of regard for D'Estouville very much
lessened when he appeared in the new character
of a rival, and eagerly he longed for the assault
on Almarez, that he might have an opportunity
of distinguishing himself, and, if possible, freeing
Catalina at the point of the sword.  Often he
repented not having followed D'Estouville at all
risks, and commanded him, on his honour, to treat
the lady with the respect which was due to her
rank and sex.

It was a clear moonlight night, and he lay
awake on the grassy sod, musing on these matters,
and thinking of Alice Lisle and the relation
in which he stood to her.  Old Stuart, the captain
of the picquet, after having drained the last
drop of the *Xeres seco*, had wrapped himself up
in his cloak, and went to sleep under a bush, with
a stone for a pillow.  From his reverie Ronald
was aroused by seeing, close by, the same figure
of the monk in the grey tunic, evidently watching
him, and with no common degree of interest, as
his eyes seemed to sparkle under the laps of his
cowl, in a manner which gave him a peculiar and
rather uncomfortable aspect.

"Ho! the picquet there!" cried Stuart, springing
to his feet, and making a plunge among the
orange foliage where the figure had appeared.
"Holloa, sentry! seize that fellow!  Confound
it, he has escaped!" he added, as the appearance
vanished again, without leaving a trace
behind.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ALMAREZ`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   ALMAREZ.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Hark! through the silence of the cold, dull night,
   |    The hum of armies gathering rank on rank!
   |  'Lo! dusky masses, steal in dubious light,
   |    Along the 'leagured wall and bristling bank
   |  Of the armed river——"
   |                            *Don Juan*, canto vii.

.. vspace:: 2

It was Sir Rowland Hill's intention, in order
to keep his movements concealed from the enemy,
to march his troops in the night, and halt them
before dawn in the wood of Jarciejo, situate about
half way between Almarez and Truxillo.

On the night of the intended departure from
the latter place, Ronald sat late with the worthy
descendant of Pizarro, Captain Don Gonzago,
listening to his long stories about that "famous
and noble cavalier General Liniers, and the
campaigns of Buenos Ayres," until the shrill bugles
at the hour of midnight sounded 'the *assembly*'
through the echoing streets of the city.  In ten
minutes the whole of the troops destined to force
the strong places of the French were under arms,
and the snapping of flints, the ringing of steel
ramrods, the tramp of cavalry and clash of artillery
guns, travelling caissons and clattering tumbrils
carrying the tools of sappers, miners, pioneers,
&c., gave token of the coming strife.

Many a flickering light from opened casements
streamed into the dark street on the bronzed
visages and serried files of the passing troops,
whom they greeted with many a viva! or hurrah!

Departing from the ancient house of Pizarro,
Ronald hurried through the dark and strange
streets towards the muster-place, and twice on his
way thither was his path crossed by the priest
mentioned in my last chapter; but the pale outline of
his figure eluded his search,—the first time by
disappearing under the black piazzas of the
townhouse, and the second time in the deep gloomy
shadow of the cloisters of San Jago de Compostella;
and although Ronald eagerly longed to follow
him, so much was he pressed for time that he
found it impossible to do so.

Without the sound of drum or horn, they began
their midnight march, descending from Truxillo
towards the Almonte,—the soldiers carrying with
them, in addition to their heavy accoutrements,
axes, sledge-hammers, and iron levers, to beat
down stockades and gates, and scaling-ladders to
aid the assault; which cumbersome implements
they bore forward by turns during the dreary
night-march.

Oh, the indescribable annoyances and weariness
of such a march!  To feel one self overpowered with
sleep, and yet be compelled to trudge on through
long and unknown routes and tracts of country,—seeing
with heavy and half-closed eyes the road
passing by like a running stream, no sound breaking
the monotonous tread of the marching feet,—to
drop asleep for a moment, and be unpleasantly
aroused by your nodding head coming in contact
with the knapsack of a front file,—to trudge on, on,
on, while every limb and fibre is overcome with
lassitude, and having the comfortable assurance
that many will be knocked on the head before
day-break, while your friends at home are lying snugly
in bed, not knowing or caring a jot about the
matter.

Before dawn the detachments were secreted
and bivouacked in the wood of Jarciejo, where
they remained the whole day, keeping close within
its recesses, as they were now in the immediate
neighbourhood of the enemy, upon whose
strongholds a night-attack was determined to be
made.  Before morning broke, Ronald had an
opportunity of bringing to a parley the monk, who
appeared to dog him in so mysterious and sinister
a manner.

Standing under the dark shade of a large chesnut,
as if for concealment, he suddenly espied the
glimmer of his long and floating grey cassock.
The young Highlander agilely sprung forward,
and caught him by the cope, when, as usual, he
was about to fly.

"Well, reverend Padre, I have caught you at
last!  How now, senor?"

"What mean you, caballero?" asked the priest
gruffly, turning boldly upon him.

"Priest!  I demand of you," replied the other
angrily, "your intentions?  Your following me
about thus cannot be for good: answer me at once,
if you dare!  I will drag you to the quarter-guard,
and have you unfrocked,—by Heaven, I will! if
you answer me not instantly."

"Hombre, I understand you not," said the priest
insolently.  "Unhand my cope, *senor officiale*, or
*demonio*!  I have a dagger—"

"A dagger!  How, you rascally padre! dare
you threaten me?"

"Why not, if you grasp me thus?" answered
he in a tone, the deepness and ferocity of which
caused Ronald to start.  "Unhand me, senor
cavalier, or it may be the worse for you in the
end.  I am a holy priest of *el Convento de todos
Santos*, at Merida, and bear a letter from the
corregidor to Sir Rowland Hill, who has employed me
as his guide."

"I believe you not; you are no priest, but some
cursed spy of Soult's, and if so, shall hang before
sunrise.  Draw back his cowl!" said Stuart to the
soldiers, who thronged round.

"*Santos-Santissimus!  O Madre de Dios!*" cried
the other, evidently in tribulation, "touch it not,
lest ye commit a grievous sin.  I am under a vow,
which ye comprehend not.  Unhand me, noble
cavalier!  I am but a poor priest, and may not
contend with armed soldiers."

The gruff voice of the priest died away in a whining
tone; and at this crisis, up came the brigade-major,
saying that Sir Rowland wished to speak
with the guide, adding that he was astonished to
find an officer brawling with a monk, and
expounded, for Ronald's benefit, the whole of the
prosy passages in general orders relating to
'guides,' 'conciliation of the Spaniards,' &c. &c. all
of which he had at his tongue's-end, to use an
inelegant phrase.

The priest broke away, and followed him
through the wood, bestowing as he departed a
hearty malediction on Ronald as a sacrilegious
heretic, who, although he valued it not a rush, was
surprised at such an ebullition of wrath from a
friar,—a character in Spain generally so meek,
humble, and conciliating.

The dagger, too!  The mention of it had aroused
all his suspicion, and he resolved to watch the
reverend father more narrowly in future; and yet
General Hill must have been well assured of his
honour and veracity, before he would trust to
his guidance on so important an occasion as the
present.

Arrangements having been made for a night
attack upon the enemy, the troops were again under
arms at dusk, mustered and called together from
the dingles of the wood, as noiselessly as possible
by voices of orderlies, and not by note of bugle or
bagpipe.  Formed in three columns, they quitted
the forest of Jarciejo, and followed the route
pointed out by their guide.

Another long and weary night-march was before
them,—a night that might have no morning for
some of them; but they entertained not such
dismal reflections, and remembered only a high spirit
of emulation, which the recent captures of Ciudad
Rodrigo and Badajoz called forth.  The night was
intensely dark, not a star lit the vast black dome
of heaven, and each column, guided by a Spaniard
who knew the country well, set out upon its
separate march.  The first, composed of the gallant 28th
(familiarly known as the *slashers*) and 34th
regiments, with a battalion of Portuguese caçadores,
under the orders of General Chowne, were directed
to take by storm the tower of Miravete,—a fortress
crowning the summit of a rugged hill, rising on
one side of the mountain pass to which it gave its
name, and through which the road to Madrid lies.

The second column, commanded by General
Long, was directed to storm the works erected by
the garrison of Miravete across the pass, which
consisted of a strong gate, with breast-work and
palisadoes, loop-holed for musquetry and defended
by cannon.

General Howard's, or the first brigade, formed
the third column, composed of the 50th regiment,
the 71st Highland Light Infantry, and the Gordon
Highlanders, together with some artillery.  These
marched by the mountains; the priest acting as
their guide to the forts at the bridge of Almarez,
which they were ordered to "take at the point of
the bayonet."  Sir Rowland Hill accompanied
them, riding beside the grey padre, who had been
accommodated with a mule, with a dozen bells
jangling at its bridle.

The night, as I have already said, was intensely
dark; a general blackness enveloped the whole
surrounding scenery, and the summits of the
gloomy mountains among which they marched,
could scarcely be discerned from the starless sky
that closed behind them like a vast sable curtain.
Many hours more than the general had ever
calculated upon were spent on the way, and numerous
suspicions of the guide's knowledge or veracity
were entertained; yet to all questions he replied
with some monkish benediction, muttered in a
snuffling tone, and insisted that the route he led
them was the nearest to the village of Almarez.

But many a malediction did the heavily-armed
soldiers bestow on their monkish guide, and the
desolate and toilsome way he led them.  Struggling
through dark defiles and narrow gorges, encumbered
with fallen trees and rugged masses of
rock, twisted brushwood and thickets, every one
of which might, for aught they knew, contain a
thousand riflemen in ambush,—through toilsome
and slippery channels of rushing streams,—over
immense tracts of barren mountainous waste, they
were led during the whole of that night, the
priest's grey cope and cassock waving in the gloom
as he rode at the head of the column, appearing
like the *ignis-fatuus*, which led them about until,
at last, when morning was drawing near, the
column halted in the midst of a deep swamp, which
took some ankle deep, and others above their
leggins or gartered hose, in water,—the reverend
padre declaring, by the sanctity of every saint in
the kalendar, he knew not whereabouts they were.
A scarce-smothered malison broke out from front
to rear, and the soldiers stamped their feet in the
water from pure vexation.  Close column was now
formed on the 50th regiment, and Sir Rowland
questioned the padre in so angry a tone, that the
whole brigade heard him.

"Hold the bridle of his mule, and cut him down
should he attempt to fly," said he to his orderly
dragoon.  "And now, *senor padre*, answer me
directly, and attempt not to prevaricate; for by
Heaven if you do, you will find your cassock no
protection from the halberts or a musquet shot,—one
or other you shall feel without ceremony."

"Noble caballero," urged the padre.

"Silence!  This night you have played the
traitor to Ferdinand, to Spain, and to us.  Is it
not so?"

"No, senor general," replied the other stoutly.

"Through your instrumentality, the attack on
Almarez has failed."

"*Ira se en humo!*"[\*] replied the priest, doggedly.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] It will end in smoke,—a Spanish saying.

.. vspace:: 2

"Do you mock us, rascal?'

"No, cavalier; but no true Spaniard likes to be
questioned thus imperiously."

"You speak somewhat boldly for a priest.  But
daylight is already breaking, and we must retire
into concealment, or abandon the attempt
altogether.  Point out some track by which we may
retreat, or, priest and Spaniard as you are, I will
order a drum-head court-martial, and have you
shot as a traitor and spy, or leaguer with the
enemy."

"*Gracios excellenze!*" urged the padre.

"Your entreaties are of no avail.  You have
deceived us with the usual treachery of your nation,
false monk!"

"By *San Juan* I have not, general!  The robe
I wear, and the letter of the corregidor of Merida,
sufficiently attest my veracity.  I have erred
through ignorance, not intention."

"I pray it may be so," said Sir Rowland in a
kinder tone.  "God forbid I should wrong an
honest man!  But where lies the village of Almarez—"

At that moment the flash of a cannon a long
way down the mountains, among whose shattered
peaks the report was reverberated, answered the
question.

By the time which elapsed between the sight of
the flash and the sound of the report, it seemed
to be fired about a mile distant.  "The morning
gun,—that is Almarez," muttered the soldiers.

"*Caballeros y soldados!*" cried the priest with
sudden energy, "I have been no traitor, as you
seem to suppose me.  In truth I knew not the
road,—by San Jago de Compostella I did not!
To-morrow night, without fail, I will guide you to
the gates of Almarez.  I tell you this as truly as
that every maravedi of my reward shall go to the
shrine of my good Lady of Majorga, whom some
rogues have lately plundered of her robes."

"Unhand his bridle," said Sir Rowland; "I
must believe him.  Major, what think you?'

"There is no alternative," replied the major
of brigade; "but as the regulations say, 'Guides
cannot be too jealously watched;' and again in
page—"

"'Tis a waste of time to expound the regulations
to a man, whose knowledge is confined to his bible
and mass-book," replied the general with a smile.
"We will retire up the mountains, and lie
concealed till favoured again by the darkness.  Let
the column break into sections, and move off left
in front.  Colonel Cameron, your Highlanders will
lead the way."

A solitary place of concealment was gained
among the rugged mountains of the Lina, where
the bivouac was hidden from the sentinels on the
castle of Miravete.

The officers anxious to lead that most desperate,
but gallant of all military enterprises, the *forlorn
hope* in the intended assault, were requested to
send their names to the general.  In spite of all
that Macdonald and his more cautious friends
could say to dissuade Ronald from so heedlessly
exposing himself to danger, the fiery young
Highlandman offered to lead the storming-party.  He
well knew how great was the danger, and how
little the chance of escape, attending those who
headed the forlorn band; but he was animated by
no ordinary feelings, and spurred on by the most
powerful of all human passions,—love and
ambition.  With these inspiring his soul, what is it
that a brave man feels himself unequal to
encounter and overcome?  Ronald was also eager
to distinguish himself, to gain the favour of the
general, the applause of the troops, the freedom
of Catalina, and the admiration—alas! he could
no longer look for the love of Alice Lisle.

The brigade-major informed him (not forgetting
to add a stave of the regulations thereto) that his
namesake, Captain Stuart of the 50th regiment,
had likewise sent his name as a candidate for the
desperate honour, and had been of course accepted
in consequence of his superior rank, adding that
Sir Rowland would not forget Mr. Stuart in the
next affair of the same kind, and that on the
present occasion he might, if he chose, attend the
storming-party as a supernumerary, as it was very
likely the first fire would knock its leader on the
head.  With this Ronald was obliged to be
contented,—rather chagrined, however, to find that
he had exposed himself to the same danger,
without a chance of obtaining the same honour.

During that day the ground was carefully
examined and reconnoitred.  The rugged bed of
a dried-up stream, which led from the summits of
the Lina to the Tagus at Almarez, was chosen as
the surest line of route on the next occasion.

Almarez was a miserable little Spanish village,
consisting of two rows of huts or cottages, leading
to an ancient bridge, which had been recently
blown up, but the want of which the French
supplied by a strong pontoon, extending between their
forts on each side of the river,—the one named
Ragusa, and the other Napoleon.  The latter
*tête-du-pont* was strongly intrenched, and defended
by nine pieces of heavy cannon and five hundred
men: Ragusa was a regular work, defended by
an equal number of men and iron guns.  A large
square tower, rising in the midst like a keep,
added greatly to the strength of the place.

After remaining for three days bivouacked among
the solitary mountains of the Lina (a ridge or
sierra which runs parallel with the Tagus,) about
ten o'clock on the evening of the last the third
column got under arms; and making a circuit
among the hills under guidance of the priest, to
avoid Miravete, arrived at the bed of the stream,
which, in the darkness, was their surest guide to
Almarez.  But before reaching this place, either
by the ignorance or treachery of their guide, they
were again led astray, and spent another night
marching about in the darkness and solitude of
these dreary sierras.  It was close on dawn of day
before they gained the village of Almarez at the
base of the hills, by descending the rough channel
of the rill, a long and toilsome path, admitting but
one file abreast, as the rocks rose abruptly on
each side of it, and the passage was encumbered
by large stones, projecting roots and trunks of
fallen trees, which caused many of the soldiers to
be hurt severely, by falling in the dark as they
toiled on, bearing in addition to their arms the
scaling-ladders, the hammers, levers, and other
implements for the assault on the gates of the
*tête-du-pont*.

The intention of taking Almarez by surprise
was frustrated by the garrison in the castle of
Miravete.  General Chowne's column having made
an assault on the outworks of the place, its soldiers,
to alarm the forts at the bridge, sent off scores of
rockets in fiery circles through the inky black
sky; beacons of tar-barrels blazed on every turret,
and red signal-lights glared in every embrasure
of the embattled tower, purpling the sky above
and the valley below, flaring on the hideous rents,
yawning chasms, and precipitous fronts of the
huge basaltic rocks among which it is situated,
and some of which, covered with foliage, overhang
the dark blue waters of the Tagus.  In some
places the basaltic crags reared their fronts to the
height of several hundred feet above the straggling
route of the third column.  The scene was wild,
splendid, picturesque, and impressively grand,
such as few men have looked on,—the dark sky,
the tremendous scenery, and the tower blazing
with its various lights and fires, while the peals of
musquetry from the assailants and the assailed
reverberated among the hills, the outlines of which
were now distinctly visible,—their sides dotted
here and there by flocks of Merino sheep, goats,
&c. which had escaped the forage-parties of the
enemy.

General Hill was now perfectly aware that an
attempt to carry the forts by surprise was
frustrated, as the assault upon them all should have
commenced at once; yet, relying on the mettle
and chivalry of his gallant troops, worn out as
they were by their night-marches, he did not
hesitate to make the effort, although he knew
that the garrisons of the *têtes-du-pont* would be
under arms for his reception.  Within an hour of
day-break the three regiments had quitted their
path, and formed in order at some little distance
from the scene of intended operations.

All was still and dark.  Before them lay the
quiet little village of Almarez, with its orange
trees and vineyards, and with its ruined bridge,
the broad abutments and piers of the centre-arch
of which hang over the Tagus, whose deep dark
waters swept sluggishly on, rippling against the
jarring and heaving boats of the pontoon bridge
which the foe had thrown across the river a little
lower down, and at each end of which appeared
the rising mounds, crowned—the nearest by fort
Napoleon, and that on the other side by the
extended trenches and lofty tower of Ragusa.

All was singularly and ominously still within
the forts: none appeared stirring except the
sentries, whose figures against the sky were discerned
moving to and fro on the bastions, or standing
still to watch the lights of Miravete, which were
yet blazing afar off among the dark mountains
of the sierra.

Preparations were now made for the attack.
The colours were uncased and thrown upon the
breeze; the flints and priming were examined.
The 6th regiment of the Portuguese line, and two
companies of German riflemen under Captain
Blacier, were ordered to form the *corps-de-reserve*,
and moved behind a rising ground, which would
cover them from the enemy's fire; while the three
British regiments, formed in two columns, pressed
forward pell-mell upon the *têtes-du-pont*.  Now
indeed was the moment of excitement, and the
pulsation of every heart became quicker.  But the
soldiers placed the utmost reliance upon the skill
and gallantry of their leader and colonels.  At the
head of the 50th regiment was Stuart, a man
whose perfect coolness and apathy in the hottest
actions surprised all, and formed a strong contrast
to the enthusiastic spirit of gallant Cadogan of
the Highland Light Infantry, and to the proud
sentiments of chivalry, martial fire, and reckless
valour which animated Cameron of Fassifern.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`D'ESTOUVILLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   D'ESTOUVILLE.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "I have seen thee work up glacis and cavalier
   |  Steeper than this ascent, when cannon, culverin,
   |  Musquet, and hackbut shower'd their shot upon thee,
   |  And formed, with ceaseless blaze, a fiery garland
   |  Round the defences of the post you stormed."
   |                                *The Ayrshire Tragedy*.  Act 1.

.. vspace:: 2

The storming-party, with their broad scaling-ladders,
passed forward double-quick to the front.

"Heaven guide you, Ronald!" whispered
Louis Lisle hurriedly, pressing the hand of Stuart
as he passed the flank of his company.

"God bless you, Lisle! 'tis the last time we
may look on each other's faces," replied the other,
his heart swelling with sudden emotions of
tenderness at this unexpected display of friendship,
at such a time, and from one to whom he had
long been as a stranger.

"*Maniez le drapeau!  Vive l'Empereur!  Apprêtez
vos armes!  Joue—feu!*" cried the clear
voice of D'Estouville from the fort; and instantly
a volley of musquetry broke over the dark line of
breast-works, flashing like a continued garland of
fire, showing the bronzed visages and tall
grenadier caps of the old French Guard, while the
waving tri-colour, like a banner of crape in the
dark, was run up the flag-staff.

"*Vive l'Empereur!  Cannoniers, commencez le
feu!*" cried a hoarse voice from the angle of the
epaule, and the roar of nine twenty-four pounders
shook the Tagus in its bed, while crash came their
volley of grape and canister like an iron tempest,
sweeping one half of the storming-party into
eternity, and strewing fragments of limbs, fire-locks,
and ladders in every direction.  A roar of
musquetry from the British, and many a soul-stirring
cheer, were the replies, and onward pressed the
assailants, exposed to a tremendous fire of small
arms from the bulwarks, and grape and cannon
shot from the flanking bastions of the *tête-du-pont*,
which mowed them down as a blast mows
withered reeds.

When now, for the first time, the sharp hiss
of cannon-shot, the groans of dying, and the
shrieks of wounded men rang in his ears, it must
be owned that Ronald Stuart experienced that
peculiar sensation of thick and tumultuous beating
in his heart, boundless and terrible curiosity,
intense and thrilling excitement, which even the
most brave and dauntless must feel when *first*
exposed to the dangers of mortal strife.  But
almost instantly these emotions vanished, and
his old dashing spirit of reckless daring and fiery
valour possessed him.  Captain Stuart had fallen
dead at his feet without a groan,—shot through
the head and heart by the first fire from the
epaule, and Ronald, sword in hand, now led on
the stormers.

"Follow me, gallants! and we will show them
what the first brigade can do," cried he, leaping
into the *avant-fosse*.  A wild hurrah was his reply,
and the soldiers rushed after him, crossing the
ditch and planting their ladders against the stone
face of the sloping glacis, exposed to a deadly
fire from loop-hole, parapet, and embrasure, while
the French kept shouting their war-cry of "Long
live the Emperor!" and the voice of D'Estouville
was heard above the din, urging them to keep up
a rapid fire.

"*Soldats,—joue!  Chargez vos armes,—-joue!
Vivat!*" echoed always by the hoarse voice of the
artillery-officer from the bastion.

"Steady the ladder, Evan Bean Iverach," cried
Stuart.  "Keep close by me, and show yourself
your father's son.  God aid our steel!  Follow me,
soldiers,—forward!—Hurrah!"  With his sword
in his right hand, his bonnet in his left, and his
dark hair waving about his face, he ascended the
ladder fearlessly, and striking up the bayonets
which bristled over the parapet, leaped upon it,
brandished his sword, miraculously escaping the
shower of shot which hailed around him.  With
dauntless bravery he sprang from the parapet
among them, and instantly the French gave way
before the irresistible stream of British troops who
poured in upon them, and a desperate struggle
took place—short, bloody, but decisive.

"*Ah, mon Dieu!  Raille—raille! soldats!
Diable!  Croisez la baïonette!*" shouted D'Estouville
frantickly,—setting his men the example
by throwing himself headlong on the bayonets of
the assailants,—but he was driven back, and his
efforts were in vain; a score of ladders had been
placed against the glacis at other places, and the
works were stormed on almost every part at once.
The defenders were driven back, but fighting with
true French bravery for every inch of ground.  The
British assailed them with irresistible impetuosity,
bearing them backwards with the charged bayonet,
the clubbed musquet, the pike, and the
sword.  By the particular favour of Providence
Ronald escaped the dangers of the forlorn hope,
while the soldiers who composed his band were
mown down like leaves in autumn; but while
pressing forward among the enemy, two powerful
grenadiers of *les Gardes Français* rushed upon
him with their levelled bayonets, putting him in
imminent peril.  The pike of a serjeant of the
50th freed him of one assailant, and closing with
the other, he dashed his head against the breech
of a carronade, and passed his sword through the
broad breast of a third who came up to his rescue,
and the warm blood poured over the hand and
blade of his conqueror, who now could scarcely
keep his feet on the wooden platform surrounding
the inner side of the breast-work, which was
covered with blood and brains, and piled with dead
and wounded—with drums, dismounted cannon,
and broken weapons.  The scene which was now
presented, is far beyond my humble powers of
description.  The blaze of cannon and musquetry
from Ragusa, at the other end of the pontoon
bridge,—where the garrison fired at the risk of
killing their comrades,—glared on the glassy
bosom of the Tagus, tinging it with that red and
golden colour so freely bestowed upon it by poets.
But within the inner talus of the breast-work and
bloody platform, the scene would have produced
horror in one less excited than men contending
hand to hand, and who regarded honour rather
than life.

There lay the ghastly dead, cold and pale in
the grey light of the morning,—across them in
heaps the wounded, quivering with intensity of
agony, grasping the gory ground with convulsive
clutches, and tearing up the earth, which was
soon to cover them, in handfuls, while their eyes,
starting from the sockets, were becoming glazed
and terrible in death.  Others, who had received
wounds in less vital parts of the frame, were
endeavouring to drag themselves from the press,
or stanch their streaming blood, imploring those
who neither heard or heeded them for "Water! water
for the love of God!"  Yells of sudden
agony, the deep groan of the severely wounded
and hoarse death-rattle of the dying men, mingled
and were lost in the tumultuous shouts of the
French, the steady and hearty cheers of the
British, the clash of steel, the tramp of feet and
discharge of musquetry, the notes of the wild war
pipes of the 71st and 92nd, which were blown loud
enough to awaken the heroes of Selma in their
tombs.  Many acts of personal heroism were
performed on both sides before the enemy were fairly
driven from their works, for which they fought
with the characteristic bravery of their gallant
nation.

But longer contention would have been madness.
The right wing of the Highland Light Infantry,
and the whole of the 50th regiment, poured in
upon them like a flood: the whole place was
captured in the course of *fifteen minutes*, and its
garrison driven into the little square formed by
their barracks, and into the bastion from which
their imperial tri-colour flung its folds over the
conflict.

"On!  Forward!  Capture the colours before
they are destroyed!" was now the cry; and hundreds,
following Colonel Stuart of the 50th, pressed
forward into the bastion, across the demi-gorge of
which the enemy had cast bundles of fascines,
composed of billets of wood, baskets of earth,
&c., over which they presented their bayonets,
and kept up a rapid fire.

Still eager to distinguish himself, Ronald pressed
on by the side of the colonel of the 50th, and
while endeavouring to break the hedge of steel
formed by the enemy's bayonets, he was thrust in
among them and borne to the ground, and his
campaigns would probably have ended there, had
not Evan Iverach, at the peril of his life, plunged
over the fascines after him, and borne to the earth
a French officer, whose sabre was descending on
his master's head.

The athletic Highlander pinned the Gaul to the
earth, and unsheathing a skene-dhu (black knife),
drove it through the breast of his discomfited foe.

"*Nombril de Belzebub!  Les sauvages Ecossais!
Sacre bleu!  Camarades, sauvez-moi!*"—but
his comrades had barely time to save themselves
from the tide of armed men, who poured
through the gap which Evan and his master had
formed.

"Hurrah, Highlanders!" cried the stentorian
voice of Campbell from another part of the works,
where he appeared on foot at the head of his
company (he was major by brevet) armed with a
long Highland dirk in addition to his formidable
Andrea Ferrara.  "Hurrah! brave hearts!  Give
them Egypt over again!  Mount the platform,
lads! slue round the cannon, and blow their
skulls off!"  A hundred active Highlanders
obeyed the order.  The twenty-four pounders were
reversed, loaded, pointed, and fired in a twinkling,
sending a tremendous volley of grape-shot among
the dense mass which crowded the dark square,
from which arose a yell such as might come
from the regions of the damned, mingled with
the gallant cry of "*Vive l'Empereur!*"

"Well done, brave fellows!  Load and fire
again! there's plenty of grape!  Another dose!
Give it them!—hurra!" cried the inexorable
Campbell again.  The effects of the second volley
were indeed appalling, as, from the elevation of
the platform, the shot actually blew off the skulls
of the unfortunate French in scores.  This was
the decisive stroke.  The bastion and square were
alike abandoned, and all rushed towards the
Tagus, to cross and gain the tower of Ragusa;
but the garrison of that place, on finding that
fort Napoleon was captured and its guns turned
on them by the German artillery, to ensure their
own retreat destroyed that of their comrades, by
cutting the pontoon bridge.  D'Estouville's troops
had now no alternative but to surrender themselves
prisoners of war.

So enthusiastic were the soldiers while flushed
with excitement and victory, that, following the
bold example of Evan Bean, numbers swam the
Tagus, and from the other side fired after the
fugitive garrison of Ragusa.

"Surrender, noble D'Estouville!  Resistance is
unavailing," cried Ronald to his old acquaintance,
who with his back against the colour-staff,
surrounded by corpses and scattered fascines, stood
on his guard, with his proud dark eyes flashing
fire under his grenadier cap.  He was resolute
apparently to die, but never to surrender to force.

"Halt! keep back, soldiers!" said Stuart,
striking down a ridge of threatening pikes and
bayonets.  "He will surrender to me.  Yield,
gallant D'Estouville! you may now do so without a
shadow of dishonour."

But he seemed to have forgotten the speaker,
as he only replied by a blow and a thrust.

"He is a gallant fellow!" said Fassifern,
tossing the bridle of his horse to an orderly, and
making his way through the press.  "Save him,
if possible, Stuart!  *Monsieur, rends votre épée,
vos armes?*"

"*Monsieur*, permit me to retain my sword, and
I will surrender; 'tis but *le droit de la guerre?*"

"Certainly, sir, if it is your wish."

"*Croix Dieu*!  Cursed fortune!  So soon again
to be a captive!  Surely, I was born under some
evil star!'

"*Monsieur,*" replied Cameron, "you have behaved
most nobly in this affair.  The glory of the
vanquished is scarcely less than that of the
victors."  The Frenchman was subdued by the well-timed
flattery, and laying his hand upon his breast,
answered by a bow.

"*Mon ami*, to you I render myself.  *C'est un
aimable roué*," said D'Estouville, laying his hand
familiarly on Ronald's epaulet while sheathing his
sword; "I become a prisoner without shame.  The
great Emperor might yield himself without dishonour
to you, my old friend; and in truth I would
rather surrender to a descendant of the ancient
friends of France than to your southern neighbours,
for with them a sea of blood will never
quench our enmity.  *Croix Dieu!* what is this?
The base cowards in Ragusa have cut off the
retreat of my soldiers!  Ah! false Monsieur de
Mesmai, the Emperor shall hear of this.  *Diable!*"

A proud and peculiar smile shot over his
features as the soldiers pulled down the tri-colour,
and bore it off as a trophy from the bastion.  He
folded his arms, and leaning against the flagstaff,
surveyed the ebbing conflict apparently with
the utmost coolness and perfect nonchalance; but
the quivering of his moustached lip showed the
workings of his heart, though he endeavoured to
conceal them.

With many a cry of "*Faites bonne guerre, messieurs
les Ecossais!  Quartier—quartier!  Les lois
de la guerre, messieurs.*"  The discomfited enemy
clamorously demanded to be taken as prisoners of
war, as the firing had now ceased every where;
and they often called aloud on "*les Ecossais*,"
probably from seeing that the majority of their
conquerors wore the kilt and trews of tartan.

"*Soldats, vos armes à terre*," cried the
crestfallen D'Estouville over the parapet of the
bastion; and, as one man, the shattered remains of
the gallant garrison grounded their arms, while a
strong party of the Gordon Highlanders, with
fixed bayonets, surrounded them as a guard.



.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CATALINA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   CATALINA.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |              "I proclaim,
   |  Through all the silent streets Creüsa's name:
   |  Creüsa still I call: at length she hears,
   |  And sudden through the shades of night appears."
   |                                        *Æneis, book* 2.

.. vspace:: 2

It was now clear daylight, and over heaps of
dead and wounded which were stretched around,
lying across each other, as Evan said, 'like herrins
in a keg,' Ronald went in search of Catalina
through the buildings composing the barracks,
which were arranged in the form of a square.  At
every turn his passage was encumbered by the
miserable victims of the morning's carnage, mostly
French, as the majority of the British killed and
wounded fell in the *avant-fosse*.  Here lay the
war-worn and grey-haired grenadier of the Guard,
seamed with the scars of Austerlitz and Jena,
blowing the bells of froth and blood from his
quivering lip, and scowling defiance with his glazing
eye at the passer.  Beside or across him lay the
muscular Highlander, his bare legs drenched in
gore, casting looks of imploring helplessness,
craving "Maister Stuart, for the love o' the heevin
aboon them, to bring the wee'st drop of water, or
send some ane to stanch their bluid."  Here lay
one Frenchman with his skull shot away and
brains scattered about,—another cut in two by a
round shot, and scores, otherwise torn to pieces
by Campbell's terrible volley from the platform,
lying in long lines, which marked the lane made
by the course and radius of each discharge of
grape, and the whole place swam with blood and
brains—a horrible puddle, like the floor of a
slaughter-house.

All this was as nothing to witnessing the
frightful agonies of the wretched wounded and dying,
goaded with the most excruciating pain, choking
in their blood,—their limbs quivering in extremity
of torture, while they shrieked the eternal cry of
"water!" and shrieked in vain.  Ronald pressed
forward almost without heeding them,—war for a
time sears and hardens the heart in no common
degree, even against the utmost accumulation of
human wretchedness; but he certainly was rather
appalled at the appearance of a soldier of the 50th
foot, who had crawled away into a corner to die
unseen.  A musquet-shot had passed through his
neck, in its way injuring the root of the tongue,
which was hanging from his mouth, swollen, livid,
and blue like that of a cow, presenting a hideous
and disgusting sight, from which young Stuart,
although his fiery heart was beating with the
tumult of the late fray, and his red blade dripped
with the signs of it, turned away in horror.  Little
know our peaceful and plodding citizens at home
of the miseries of war!

In search of Donna Catalina, Ronald wandered
every where through the deserted and confused
quarters of the enemy, but she was no where to
be found; and he was about to cross the river
and search the tower of Ragusa, or question
D'Estouville, when drums beating in the square
called him to the parade of the regiment.

It was now a beautiful morning, and the rising
sun shed its lustre on the ridges of the Lina and
windings of the bright Tagus.  At their base, in
the pure bosom of the glassy river, the trees and
vineyards, cottages and ruined bridge of Almarez,
the bastions of fort Napoleon and black tower
of Ragusa, were reflected downwards as clearly as
if in some huge mirror.  Above them the morning
mist from the cork woods and the smoke of
fire-arms from the forts, mingling together and
ascending in volumes, melted away on the thin
breezy air.  Long and loud blew pipe and bugle,
mustering the troops in the square of the *tête-du-pont*;
but many who had marched to them merrily
yesterday, lay stark and stiff now, and heard their
blast no more.  The military store-houses of the
enemy had been broken open and given over to
pillage, and skins of wine, bottles of rum, and kegs
of French brandy were to be had for the broaching.
Barrels were staved, and hams, rounds of
beef, etc. were tossed by the soldiers from one
to another, and borne aloft in triumph on the
points of bloody bayonets, and every man filled
his havresack with such provisions as he could
lay his hands on.

When this scene of tumult and disorder was
ended, the capturers of the fort Napoleon were
mustered in the barrack-square, to receive the
thanks of General Hill for the steadiness and
dashing gallantry of their conduct throughout the
assault.  The soldiers burned to give the fine old
fellow three hearty cheers, but discipline withheld them.

Addressing himself to Ronald in particular, he
thanked him for the dauntless manner in which,
on Captain Stuart's fall, he had led the assault.
While the general spoke, Ronald felt his heart
glowing with the most unalloyed delight, and the
reward of being thus publicly thanked before his
comrades, was sufficient for the dangers he had
dared and overcome.  "How proud," thought he,
"will the people at the old tower of Lochisla be,
when they hear of this day's work!  And Alice
Lisle—surely she—"

Here the soft and plaintive voice of one well
known to him broke the chain of his thoughts.

"*O Senor Don Ronald!  O por amor de Dios!*"
exclaimed Catalina with sudden joy, "for the love
of the holy Virgin protect me!"

"For the love of yourself, rather, fair Catalina,"
said he, advancing from the flank of his company
to where he saw her kneeling on the ground
between the close ranks of German rifles, who
beheld her distress with sullen apathy.  How
beautiful she looked then!  Her white hands
were clasped in an agony of terror, and her long
glossy hair rolled in dishevelled ringlets about
her fine neck and shoulders.  He raised her from
the ground.

"Catalina," said he, "I cannot leave my post
to see you from the fort; but do me the favour to
take my arm,—and pray do not be so agitated.
There is no danger now."

"O no,—with you I am safe," she replied with
a delightful smile of entire confidence, which
caused a thrill to pass through Ronald's heart as
she placed her arm in his.  "*O amigo mio!* what
a terrible morning this has been!  How terrified I
have felt since the roar of the cannon roused me
from bed.  And you have escaped!  Praise be
to the Virgin for it! she heard my prayers.
Ah! how I trembled for you, when I saw from a
loop-hole the black plumes of your regiment."

Ronald pressed the little hand which lay on his
arm, but he knew not what to say.  A tremor of
softness and joy filled his heart, causing him to
turn with disgust from the objects of bloodshed
and strife that lay every where around, and his
eyes rested on the donna's radiant features with
a pleasure which he had never known till then.
How agreeable it was to hear the frank girl
talking in this way!

"*O santa Maria!*" she exclaimed with a shudder,
after a pause, "I can scarcely look around
me, so many fearful sights present themselves
everywhere to my eye,—sights of which we knew
nothing at happy Merida, before the false
Napoleon crossed the Pyrenees."

"With God's help, and our good steel, Catalina,
we will drive his legions back again,—or
into the sea at Bayonne; and then again at
Merida the fandango, the bolero and waltz—"

"*Amigo mio*, senor! you speak as might become
the Cid Rodrigo; but although your hand
may be as stout, and your sword as long as
his, why be so rash?  How you leaped over
the parapet, among the horrid bayonets of the
French—"

"You saw me, then," said Ronald with delight.
"And trembled for you."

"How fortunate I am to have your good wishes!
I dare say you are very happy at being freed from
this place?"

"O very—very!  But surely it was not on my
account that all this frightful work has been made.
Perhaps you have heard how I was carried off
from Merida?"

"Yes; and I cannot express the uneasiness the
relation gave me."

"A French officer, a Major D'Estouville,
carried me off across his saddle a captive maiden,
by force, as any fierce Moor of Grenada would
have done long ago.  I have been since a
prisoner here."

"Well, but this D'Estouville—"

"Such a gay cavalier he is!  But I was very
tired of him, and longed to be at pleasant Merida
with its sunny Prado and orange groves, instead
of this dull, guarded fort, with its bulwarks and
ditches, cannon and gates.  I was much annoyed
by Monsieur D'Estouville's speeches and protestations;
but 'tis all at an end now, and I trust he
has escaped, though I wish not to see his face
again.  Do you know if he is safe?"

"I saved his life but an hour since," replied
Ronald, the pique which he felt at her first
observations disappearing.  "But I do not see him
among the prisoners," he added, examining the
sullen and disarmed band as they marched past
out of the fort, surrounded by their armed escort
commanded by Louis Lisle, from whose cheek
the blood was trickling from a sabre wound, which
he heeded not.

The officers on parole uncovered their heads on
passing the young lady, who now, when her terror
was over, began naturally to feel abashed and
confused to find herself leaning on an officer's
arm on a military parade, exposed to the gaze of
several regiments.

"Oh, I trust he has escaped; 'twere a thousand
pities if so sprightly a soldado should be
injured."

"On my word, if you take so great an interest
in this rash Frenchman, I shall feel quite jealous."

"You have no reason, senor.  I tell you I never
wish to see his face again, though it is a very
handsome one," responded the donna with an air
of pique, while a purple blush crossed her features.
"Holy Mary, would I had my veil here!  To be
thus gazed at—"

"Here comes one may give us some information.
Macdonald, where is the French
commandant,—D'Estouville; the young man with the bear-skin
cap and crimson feather?"

"With his fathers, I believe, poor fellow.  He
was a gallant soldier as ever drew sword," replied
Alister, who at that moment came past and paid
his respects to Donna Catalina, whom he was not
a little surprised to see amidst the ranks of the
Highlanders leaning on Ronald's arm, while her
long beautiful tresses streamed about like those
of some wood-nymph or goddess.

"I rejoice to see you in safety, senora.  I heard
of your being in the hands of the enemy,—indeed
it made so deep an impression on my *bon camarade*,
that he could not keep it a secret.  Faith, Stuart,"
he added in a whisper, "you have picked up
something more precious than a skin of Malaga,
or a keg of French *eau de vie*."

"Stay, Alister," replied the other, with an air
of displeasure; "a truce to raillery.  I am sorry to
see you wounded."

"A few inches of skin ripped up,—a mere
nothing," said Macdonald, whose arm was slung in
his sash.  "I received it from the bayonet of a
fine old grenadier, whom Angus Mackie has sent
to his long home."

"Well, but the commandant—"

"Poor fellow!  I am sorry for his fate,—he
seemed so gallant and reckless."

"The devil, man! what has happened?"

"Have you not heard?"

"No: he yielded himself to me, with permission
to retain his sword."

"Better had he tossed it into the Tagus!
Scarcely had you left him, when up came that fiery
borderer Armstrong, of the 71st, (at least I have
heard that it was Armstrong,) demanding his
sword, not being aware of the terms on which he
had rendered himself prisoner.  The Frenchman,
D'Estouville I think you call him, either could
not or would not comprehend him; and Armstrong,
by a single stroke of his sword, cleft his
skull through the thick grenadier cap."

An exclamation of rage and impatience broke
from Ronald, and of pity from Catalina, who
clasped her hands and raised her dark melancholy
eyes to heaven, while he cast an angry and
searching glance along the ranks of the Highland
Light Infantry.

"Sir Rowland Hill," continued Alister, "regrets
this unfortunate circumstance very much,
and has sent him off in a bullock-car to Merida,
in charge of a French medical officer liberated on
his parole.  But I must bid you adieu, as our
company is ordered to assist Thiele, the German
engineer, to destroy the tower and bastions of
Ragusa.  Heaven knows how we shall accomplish
it:—it looks as massive as the old pile of
Maoial in the western isles."

"What is that villanous priest about?" said
Ronald when Macdonald had withdrawn, and he
saw their guide, with the grey cassock bedaubed
with blood, busying himself about the prostrate
dead and wounded.  "Surely he is not plundering.
Prick him with your bayonet, Macpherson,
and drive him off."

"O no, senor, Heaven forbid!" said the young
lady hurriedly.  "He must be confessing, or
endeavouring to convert some, before they die and
are lost for ever."

"Scarcely, Catalina," replied Ronald, seeing
they were men of the 71st.  "These are true
Presbyterians, from a place called Glasgow in
my country, and would as soon hearken to the
devil as a Roman Catholic priest."

"How good must be the priest who endeavours
to gain the dying soldier from the hot grasp of
*Satanas*!" said the lady, not comprehending him.
"Call him, Don Ronald; I have not confessed
since I left Merida."

"What sins can you have to confess, Catalina?
Besides, I do not like this fellow.  But since you
look so imploringly, and desire it so much, I will
bring him to you.  But let him beware.  Ho! reverend
*gobernador!  Senor padre* of the *Convento
de todos Santos*, let alone the havresacks of dead
men, and come hither."

The priest, starting from his occupation, crossed
his hands upon his breast, and came stalking
slowly towards them, with his head enveloped in
his cope, and his cross and rosary dangling before him.

Catalina, wearied with excess of agitation and
the want of sleep, was anxious to procure a
female attendant, and to be sent to the village of
Almarez, from which she hoped to find some
means of travelling to the residence of her cousin
and sister, Donna Inesella.  And as Ronald's
duties at that time required his being alone, he
sent her off on Major Campbell's horse,
accompanied by the priest and Evan Iverach, whom he
desired to see her safe in the best house of the
village, and to remain with her until he could
come in the evening.  Immediately on means
being procured to convey the suffering wounded
to the rear in blankets, bullock-carts, hurdles of
branches, crossed pikes, etc., the forts were
ordered by Sir Rowland Hill to be completely
destroyed.  Eighteen pieces of cannon were spiked
and cast into the Tagus.  The dead British and
French, friend and foe, the victors and the
vanquished, found one common grave.  About four
hundred corses were tossed into the *avant-fosse*—arms,
accoutrements, and every thing, for burial,
and a horrible pile they formed, lying heaped
over each other like fish in a net.  The heavy
stone parapets, the *revêtement* and earthen works
were thrown over on them, for the double purpose
of covering them up and to dismantle the place.
Gates, palisades, and bridges were destroyed, and
barracks and store-houses given to the flames,
consuming in one universal blaze of destruction
every thing that could not be carried off.

Ragusa was destroyed by the German artillery,
who lodged a quantity of powder in the vaults of
the tower, to demolish it effectually by explosion.
Lieutenant Thiele, a German officer of engineers,
having fired the train, and found that the powder
in the vaults did not explode, entered the
chamber where it lay, to ascertain the reason.  At
that instant it blew up, carrying the unfortunate
man into the air, amidst a cloud of dust and
stones.

From battlement to foundation the massive
stone tower, burst and rent, tottered for an
instant, and then sunk like a house of cards, but
with a mighty crash, which shook the frail cottages
of the adjacent village.  A shower of stones
and mortar was scattered in every direction, and
the mangled corse of Thiele fell into the river
many yards off, and sunk to the bottom unheeded
and uncared for.

Such was the storming of Almarez, which took
place on the 18th May, 1812; and for the capture
of which Sir Rowland, afterwards Lord Hill,
received the title of Baron Almarez of the Tagus.

As soon as the laborious work of destruction
was completed, the troops were marched from the
ruined forts, with their colours flying and drums
beating; and ascending the hills of the Lina to
the distance of about half a league, bivouacked
on their grassy sides.  As they retired, Ronald
looked back to the place where so many had
found a tomb, and where, but for another
destiny, he might have found his.  Under the mounds
made by the levelled ramparts lay the mangled
remains of men, who but a few hours before were
in life, and in the full enjoyment of health and
spirits.  A cloud of dust and smoke yet hung
over the ruins, between which the glassy Tagus
was flowing still and clear, with its surface
glowing in the full splendour of the meridian
sun,—flowing onwards as it had done a thousand
years before, and as it will do a thousand after
those who fought and died at Almarez are forgotten!

Leaving the bivouac on the mountain-side,
where fires were lighting and preparations making
to regale on what had been found in the stores
of the enemy, Ronald, immediately on arms being
'piled,' returned to the village, which he found
almost deserted by the population, who were
rummaging and searching about the ruins of the
forts for whatever they could lay their hands on,
heedless of the lamentations made by the widows
of some of the slain, who hovered near the
uncouth tomb of their husbands.

At the door of a dilapidated cottage, the walls
and roof of which appeared to be held together
solely by the thick masses of vine and wild roses
clambering about them, Ronald found Evan
busied in cleaning his musquet and harness, which
were, of course, soiled with the morning's strife,
and chanting the while his favourite "Keek into
the draw-well," &c., to drown the monotonous
Ave-Maria of an old blind village matron, who
was telling over her rosary while she sat on a turf
by the door, warming herself in the rays of the
bright sun.

He entered softly the desolate earth-floored
apartment in which Donna Catalina was awaiting
his return.  In one corner, with his hands as
usual meekly crossed over his bosom, stood the
burly and disagreeable figure of the
priest,—disagreeable because there was a sort of mystery
attached to him, which the shapeless appearance
of his garments, and the custom of wearing a
cowl instead of a scull-cap or shovel-hat, tended
not a little to increase; and Ronald, as a
Scotsman and thorough Presbyterian, was naturally not
over-fond of any one connected with

   |  "The Palp, that pagan fu' o' pride,"

and consequently he bestowed on the apparently
unconscious padre a stern look of scrutiny and
distrust.  At a little square opening, that served
the purpose of a window, and around which the
clustering grapes and roses formed a rural curtain,
Catalina was seated with her soft pale cheek
resting on her hand, which was almost hidden
among the heavy curls, the hue of which
contrasted with its whiteness.  Her dark eyes were
intently fixed on the green mountains of the Lina,
where the British bivouac was visible.  The
scabbard of Stuart's claymore jarring on the tiles of
the floor, roused her from her reverie, and a rich
blush suffused her face, from her temples to her
dimpled chin, as she advanced towards him in
her usual confiding and frank manner, and passed
her arm through his.

"The reverend father will perhaps retire, and
keep the old patrona at the door company in her
devotions," said Ronald after some conversation
and the monk immediately withdrew.

"*Ah! senor mio*," said Catalina in a gentle tone
of deprecation, "why do you treat the poor priest
so haughtily?"

"I do not like him, Catalina—on my honour I
do not; and I believe there is no love lost
between us.  I could have sworn I saw the cross
hilt of a dagger glitter under the cope of his
cassock, as he withdrew just now."

"His crucifix, perhaps."

"He told me he carried a dagger, when I
confronted him in the wood of Jarciejo."

"Well, 'tis very probable he bears it in these
sad times for protection; he can scarcely gain any
from cross or cope now.  He says he is Father
Jerome, of the convent of All Saints at Merida.
I think I have heard his voice before: he has not
shown his face, as he says a vow compels him to
conceal it.  But indeed you *must* be respectful to
him.  The noblest hidalgos and cavaliers in my
country respect the poorest Franciscan."

"The meanest clown in mine, Catalina, cares
not a rush for the Pope and all his cardinals."

"*Madre-Maria*!  I will not listen to you," said
she, placing her hand on his mouth.  "You must
not talk thus; 'tis very sinful.  But, alas! you
know not the sin of it.  Ah! senor, if you love
me," she added, blushing deeply, "if you love
me as you have said you do, speak not so again."

"Love you, Catalina!" replied the young man,
intoxicated with the tenderness of the expression,
while he drew her towards him.

"Oh, stay,—what—who is that?"  said the lady
hurriedly, as the room became suddenly darkened.

"'Tis only that cursed priest."

"Surely it was a British officer; his epaulets
glittered among the vine leaves."

"Was I to find the padre eaves-dropping, his
cassock would scarcely save him from a good
caning."

"Alas! that would be most foul sacrilege.
But speaking of him, reminds me of a plan we
had formed just before you came in.  I mean to
put myself under his escort, and to travel to
Truxillo, where the alcalde, or my mother's
brother, Don Gonzago de Conquesta, will find me a
proper escort to Idanha-a-Velha, where you say
my cousin Inesella resides."

"And think you I will entrust you the length
of Truxillo with this dubious character,—a priest
with a poniard in his robe?"

"*Amigo mio*," said she, pouting prettily, "surely
I can dispose of myself as I please?"

"Catalina, a thousand times I have told you
that I prize your safety before my own," said
Ronald, kissing her forehead.  "I will myself travel
with you to Idanha-a-Velha."

"I thank you, but it may not be.  I may
travel with a padre; but the rules of society would
not permit the cavalier or soldado to be my
patron or guardian."

"But this priest—"

"You judge of him harshly, indeed.  I assure
you that he prays very devoutly, and I can trust
myself with him without fear, especially for so
short a distance as from this to Truxillo.  I have
no fear of the French, and neither robber nor
guerilla in Spain will insult the relative of so
famous a cavalier as Don Alvaro de Villa Franca.
Ah! had Alvaro lived in the days when Spain
was most glorious, when her chivalry were the
first in Europe, his deeds would have out-vied
even those of the Cid."

Ronald's indecision in this matter was ended
by the arrival of an orderly, saying that the
colonel wished to see him as soon as possible.

"What a confounded predicament!" exclaimed
the impatient Ronald when the Highlander
was gone.  "I do not half like entrusting you
with this cunning priest; and yet I must,—there
is no alternative.  I believe I am selected by Sir
Rowland Hill to carry the account of this
victorious morning to Lord Wellington; and as I
cannot protect you myself, I must resign you to
him."

Ronald racked his invention to find other
schemes, but the young lady had made up her
mind, and was obstinate in consequence; therefore
her cavalier had to submit, and make such
arrangements for her departure as would enable
him to repair immediately to Fassifern.

A few *duros* procured D'Estouville's splendid
black charger from a Portuguese caçadore, whose
share of plunder it had become, and a side-saddle
was placed upon it for the lady.  The priest had
his stout mule, and another was procured for a
ruddy brown-cheeked *paisana* or young peasant
girl, whom Catalina had engaged to accompany
her by the way as a female attendant, and who,
although she had a proper saddle, thought it did
not in the least savour of want of *vergüenza*
(modesty) to ride, *à la cavalier*, in the Spanish
manner.

Ronald having got all these matters arranged
satisfactorily with promptitude and dispatch,
returned to bid adieu to Catalina, who drooped
upon his shoulder, and gave way to a passion of
tears.

He was so much agitated by this display of
affection and tenderness, that he could scarcely
persuade himself to separate from her, and with
difficulty restrained a strong inclination to make
some rash and formal proposal.  But, as he
pressed his lip to her pale cheek, he assured her
that he would in a very short time obtain leave of
absence, and visit her at Idanha-a-Velha.

But for some faint hopes and lingering love for
Alice Lisle, Ronald would at this exciting
moment have brought matters to a climax with the
beautiful donna; and if it is possible for the heart
to have *two* loves at once, his was certainly in
that singular predicament.  His case is truly
described in the words of the Scottish song,—

   |  "My heart is divided between them,
   |    I dinna ken which I wad hae;
   |  Right willingly my heart I wad gien them,
   |    But how can I gie it to twae?
   |
   |  My heart it is rugged and tormented,
   |    I'd live wi' or die for them baith;
   |  I've dune what I've often repented,
   |    To baith I have plighted my aith."
   |

They were reclining in the recess of the opening
or window, through which the vines straggled.
Poor Catalina, as the hour of departure drew nigh,
no longer cared to conceal the sentiments of her
heart, but hung on Ronald's breast; while he
returned her embrace with ardour, and their glossy
hair mingled together in the bright sunshine.  At
that moment the door was opened, and Louis
Lisle entered abruptly.

Having delivered over his prisoners to a cavalry
guard among the mountains, he had returned
hastily to Almarez, anxious to see Ronald Stuart, and
bring about that long-delayed reconciliation and
explanation for which he so much yearned,—the
few words spoken before the forts were stormed
having, to use a common-place phrase, 'broken
the ice between them.'  Full of this frank intention,
Lisle, after searching the village, had found
the cottage where Ronald was; and entering with
that unceremonious freedom, which is learned by
a residence in camp or quarters, found, to his no
small surprise and indignation, that there was one
more there than he expected.

Catalina started from Ronald's arm, and hid
her blushing cheek in arranging the masses of her
luxuriant hair.  Ronald eyed the unwelcome
intruder with a look of surprise, which he was at no
pains to conceal; while the latter gave him a
fierce glance of impatience, anger, and dislike;
and muttering,—"Pardon me.  I am, I believe,
under a mistake, which will be explained when I
have a fitting time and place," he withdrew as
hastily as he had entered.

Scarcely had he retired, when the monk of
Merida brought his mule and Catalina's horse to
the door of the cottage.  The lady fastened on her
sombrero, with its long veil and white feather.
Ronald tied the ribbons of the velvet mantilla,
and leading her to the door, assisted her to mount.

Her new attendant, the black-eyed paisana,—all
blushes and smiles of pleasure at the prospect of
a Badajoz hat with a silver band, a pelisse and
frock of the best cloth from Arrago-de-Puerco,
trimmed with lace, etc., which her lady had
promised her,—appeared mounted, as we have before
described, upon a mule, the housings of which
were better than the friar's, which consisted
entirely of rope.

Poor Victor D'Estouville's black war-steed
still had its embossed bit and military bridle, with
the outspread wings of the Imperial eagle on its
forehead and rich martingale,—which, with the
saddle-cloth, embroidered with the badges of the
old Guard, formed a strange contrast with the
faded side-pad of coarse Zafra leather, which was
girthed on it for the lady's accommodation.

When they had departed, he watched their retiring
figures as long as they were in sight, until
a turn of the road, as they entered the now
deserted pass of Miravete at a gallop, hid them from
his view, and he turned towards the bivouac on
the mountain side, feeling a heaviness of heart
and presentiment of approaching evil, caused
probably by a re-action of the spirits after the fierce
excitement of the morning, but for which, at that
moment, he could not account.  His distrust of
the padre Jerome, the guide, increased when he
recalled and reviewed many suspicious and
singular points of his character.

Communing with himself, he was slowly ascending
the slope towards the bivouac, forgetting
altogether the orders of the colonel, and turning
now and then to view the little village of
Almarez, embosomed among the umbrageous groves
that grew around it, and far up the sides of the
undulating Lina behind; the winding Tagus
flowing in front, and the vast expanse of landscape
and blue sky beyond, were all pleasing objects,
and he gazed upon them with the delight of one
who knew how to appreciate their beauty.  He
was aroused from his reverie by hearing his own
name called, and on looking about, saw, to his
surprise, Major Campbell, reposing his bulky
frame in a little grassy hollow.  His neck was
bare, his coat was unbuttoned, and his belt, sash,
etc., lay scattered about.  Near him his horse
was grazing quietly, but the major seemed
inflamed by the utmost anger and excitement.  Ronald
advanced hastily towards him, and perceived that
his servant, Jock Pentland, was dressing a wound
on his neck, which was covered with blood.

"What has happened, Campbell?"

"Such an affair as never happened before, even
in Egypt," replied the other furiously, with a
mighty oath—sworn in Gaelic, however.

"Nothing very bad, I hope?"

"Only a stab in the neck, three inches by one!"

"I knew not that you were wounded.  Surely
I saw you safe and sound after the mine was
sprung at Ragusa.  But I had better send the
surgeon, or Stuart his assistant, to you."

"Oh, no! 'tis a mere scratch, which I would
not value a brass bodle, had I received it during
the brush this morning; but to gain it as I did,—d—n
it! it excites all my fury.  Did you see that
blasted friar?"

"The guide?  I left him but an hour ago.  But
who wounded you?  Surely not the priest?"

"An old acquaintance of yours."

"Of mine!"

"Of yours, by the Lord!  The rascal is disguised
as a priest of the *Convento de todos Santos*
at Merida.  A short time ago I met the rogue
leading a mule this way: his face was bare,—I
knew him instantly and strove to capture him,
that the provost-marshal might in time become
acquainted with his throat, which I grasped.
Quick as lightning he unsheathed a poniard, and
dealt a blow at my neck, which alighting luckily
on my gorget, glanced upwards, giving me a
severe cut under the ear."

"Misery!  You have not yet told his name."

"Are you really so dull as not yet to have
guessed who he is?  Tighten the bandage, Jock!
I knew the cheat-the-woodie as well as I would
have done old Mohammed Djedda, Osmin Djihoun
the shoe-maker at Grand Cairo, or any queer carle
it has been my luck to meet in campaigning.
But come to the bivouac, and I will give you a
detailed account of the matter over the contents
of a keg of especial good *eau de vie*, which it was
my luck to capture this morning."

"'Tis Cifuentes!  Powers above! and to him—a
bandit and murderous bravo, have I entrusted
the guidance of Don Alvaro's sister!  I must
follow and rescue her from this monster, ere worse
may come of it."

"What is all this?  Of what do you speak?"
said the major, struck with wonder at the other's
vehemence and emotion.

"How shall I follow them?  Withered be my
hand, that it struck not the cowl from his
accursed visage, and discovered him ere he
outwitted me in such a manner!"

"By the tomb of the Campbells, he has a
bee in his bonnet!" continued the major with
increased wonder; while even Jock Pentland (a
hard-featured Lowlander with high cheek-bones)
stayed his employment to stare at him.

"What tempted the villain to come hither,
disguised as a priest?'

"The reward offered by Sir Rowland for a
guide,—and perhaps he had some design against
your life.  He bears you no good will."

"As he has failed in that by my vigilance, the
brunt of his hate will fall with double fury on
Donna Catalina, to whose noble brother he is an
especial foe.  This caused the presentiment, the
secret feeling of coming evil, which has haunted
me this whole morning; and truly, it was not for
nought.  Major, my resolution is taken: I will set
off across the hills in pursuit of them this instant.
You must lend me your horse, and make the best
excuse for me you can to the colonel, as I shall
not be back till to-morrow perhaps.  Ho! now
for the chase!  Narvaez is likely to find a cairn
among the mountains, if he comes within reach
of my sword."

He leaped upon Campbell's horse while speaking,
and urging it towards the hills was away in a
moment, while the proprietor sprung from the
ground, exclaiming hastily, "Holloa! ho, man!
What, the devil, is the fellow mad?  Halt, Stuart!
By heavens! he will break his neck, and the
horse's wind, if he rides at that rate.  And what
shall I do without my horse?  I must visit the
guards to-night on foot.  What on earth can the
fellow mean?  Surely the uproar of this morning's
assault has crazed him!  You remember, Pentland,
that two of the *Tow-rows*\[\*] went mad outright
after the battle of Alexandria, when we were in
Egypt with Sir Ralph."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] A familiar name for the grenadiers, as *Light-bobs* for the
light infantry, and *Flat-foots* for the battalion men.  These
old mess-room phrases are going out of the service now.

.. vspace:: 2

Heedless alike of the cries, threats, and entreaties
which the major sent after him in a voice
of no measured compass, on went Ronald, flying
at full speed through the bivouac of the 50th
regiment, plunging right through a large fire,
scattering burning billets, camp-kettles, cook's
ration-meat, &c.  in every direction.  Overturning
soldiers and piles of arms in his progress, he drove
recklessly on with headlong speed towards the
pass of Miravete, down the deep dark gorge of
which he galloped just when the purple sun was
dipping beyond the western horizon, and the notes
of the bugles sounding the evening "retreat"
died away on the breeze behind him.

Onward he rode along the narrow mountain-path,
the hills becoming darker and loftier, the
overhanging craigs more awful and precipitous
on each side as they heaved their black fronts
over the road, filled with yawning fissures and
rents, growing black in the gloom of the evening.
But these had no terrors for the Scotsman,—he
heeded not the increasing depth of the shadows,
or the wild appearance of the basaltic rocks; he
kept his eye fixed on the windings of the road,
but no trace could he discover of those of whom
he was in pursuit.  The line of march was dotted
with wounded soldiers, straggling on to Merida,
(whither they had been ordered to retire,) and
some were dying on the road, unable to proceed
further, while others had expired outright, and
were lying neglected by the way-side.

Ronald returned not that evening, and when
the troops were paraded next day he was still
absent; and the major's account of the singular
manner in which he galloped off among the
mountains in no way tended to lessen the anxiety
which his friends felt at his unaccountable
absence.  Cameron, who was a strict disciplinarian,
was very indignant, and resolved that the
moment he did return, he should be deprived of his
sword and put under arrest.  The despatch and
captured colours of the fortress, together with
General Hill's earnest recommendation of Ronald,
which it was intended he should have carried to
Lord Wellington himself, were sent in charge of
Captain Bevan.  The same day the victors of
Almarez retired, to rejoin the rest of the division
at Almendralejo, where Sir William Erskine (who
had been left in command) expected hourly to be
attacked by Marshal Soult, whose troops,
however, never appeared, but kept close within their
cantonments in the neighbouring province.

Nine days elapsed before the regiments rejoined
the division, and no word was yet heard of the
missing Stuart, although every inquiry was made
at Villa Maria, San Pedro, and Medellin, where
they made long halts.  He was given over by his
friends as a lost man, and poor Evan Iverach
was well nigh demented.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MATADOR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MATADOR.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Her neck is bared, the blow is struck,
   |    The soul has passed away;
   |  The bright, the beautiful is now
   |    A bleeding piece of clay."
   |                        *Summer and Winter Hours.*

.. vspace:: 2

Ronald rode at a rapid gallop along the wild
mountain-path which I have already described.
The evening was growing dark, and in that solitary
place the sound of the horse's hoofs alone broke
the death-like stillness, and awoke the echoes of
the frowning rocks.

In one place lay dead a poor soldier of the 50th
regiment.  His wife and three little children were
clinging to his corpse, and lamenting bitterly.
Night was closing around them, and the desolate
creatures seemed terrified at its approach in such
a wild spot, and called to Ronald loudly as he
rode past; but he was too eager to overtake
Catalina and her dangerous companion, to waste time
unnecessarily.  But he made an involuntary stop
a little further on, where a soldier of his own
company, a smart young fellow, named Archibald
Logan, lay writhing in agony across the road,
with the dust of which his blood was mixing as
it oozed in heavy drops from a wound in the
breast,—a musquet-shot having passed through
his left shoulder-belt.  Ronald reined-in the
animal he rode, to stay for a moment and gaze upon
him.  He was the same young soldier whose aged
mother had accompanied him with such sorrow to
the beach at Leith, on the morning Major
Campbell's detachment embarked, and Ronald (under
whose notice this circumstance had brought him)
had always admired his soldier-like smartness and
steadiness.  He was dying now, and evidently in
a state of delirium; broken sentences and wild
observations fell from his clammy lips.  Ronald
spoke to him:

   |  "He heard it, but he heeded not; his eyes
   |  Were with his heart, and that was far away."
   |

"O mother! mother!" said he in piercing accents,
"dinna upbraid me wi' enlisting and leaving
ye.  Ye ken weel for what I did it,—to pay my
puir auld faither's debt to Peter Grippy, and to
free him frae the tolbooth o' Edinburgh.  But he
wadna allow me, and ca'ed the bounty his bairn's
bluid siller.  Put yer face close to mine, mother;
for I hear yer greetin' and moanin', but I canna
see the face I fain would look on.  Tell my faither
to lay me in the sunny side o' the kirk-yard,—ye
ken the place weel.  I aye loed to pu' the gowans
and blue-bells that grew there in simmer.  Menie
Ormelie lies there, amang the lang green deid
grass; lay me—lay me close to her.  O mother! ye
ken I loed her weel; we herded the same kye,
and—"  His voice sunk away into a whisper, and
Ronald became deeply affected.  After a pause,
he continued in the same tone of agony, "Bonnie
Menie,—Menie wi' the gowden hair!  She lies
between the muckle deid-stane o' the lairds o'
Glencorse, and the vault o' the auld folk o'
Castle-Outer.  Lay me close by her side, and plant some
o' the broon heather frae the bonnie Pentlands—the
Pentlands I loe sae weel—on the heavy
howme that covers me."  This was the last effort.
A gush of blood spouted from the wound, and
he died without a groan.

Stuart could scarce refrain from tears at
witnessing the fate of this poor private soldier.
Death, amidst the fierce excitement and tumult
of battle, where "the very magnitude of the
slaughter throws a softening disguise over its
cruelties and horrors," is nothing to death when
it comes stealing over a human being thus, slowly
and gradually, having in it something at once
awful and terribly impressive; and Ronald Stuart,
blunted and deadened as his feelings were by
campaigning, felt this acutely, as he turned away from
the corse of his comrade and countryman.

His attention was next arrested by a monstrous
raven, or corbie, which sat on a fragment of rock,
watching attentively the scene as if awaiting his
coming banquet; but Ronald compelled it to take
to flight, by uttering a loud holloa, which
reverberated among the rocks of the mountain
wilderness.  It was now night; but the moon arose above
the summits of the hills, glowing through openings
in the thin clouds like a shield of polished
silver, and pouring a flood of pale light along
the pass of Miravete, casting into yet deeper
shadow the rifted rocks which overhung it.  The
speed at which he rode soon left the mountains
far behind him, and about midnight brought him
close to the gloomy wood of Jarciejo; but on all
that line of road he had discovered no trace of
Donna Catalina, or the ruffian who had deceived
her; and as the country thereabouts was totally
uninhabited, he met no one who could give him
the slightest information, and his mind became
a prey to fear and apprehension that some act of
blood or treachery might be perpetrated before
he came up with them.

"There they are!  Now, then, Heaven be thanked!"
he exclaimed on seeing figures on horseback
standing at Saint Mary's well, a rude fountain
at the cross-road leading from Truxillo to
Lacorchuela, which intersects that from Almarez to
Jarciejo.  He loosened his sword in the scabbard,
but on advancing found that he was mistaken.
He met a stout cavalier of Lacorchuela escorting
two ladies, whose singular equipage would have
inclined him to laugh, had he been in a merrier
mood.  They were seated on two arm-chairs, slung
across the back of a strong mule, and facing
outwards, rode back to back.  They were enveloped
in large mantillas, and their bright eyes flashed
in the moonlight, as they each withdrew the
*antifaz*, or mask of black silk, which covered their
faces to protect them from the dust, the heat of
the sun, or the chill night-air when travelling.

Ronald hastily saluted them, and asked their
escort if a priest and two females had passed that
way?  The cavalier, who was mounted on a fine
Spanish horse, raised his broad beaver, throwing
back his heavy brown cloak as he did so, as if to
show that he was well armed by displaying the
glittering mountings of the pistols, long stiletto,
and massive Toledo sabre, which for protection
he carried in the leathern baldric encircling his
waist.  He said, that when he had first stopped at
the fountain to rest, about an hour ago, a priest
and two ladies had passed, and taken the road
directly for the forest of Jarciejo.

Ronald waited to hear no more, but hurriedly
muttering his thanks, urged the good animal he
rode to a gallop in the direction pointed out,
regardless as to whether or not the whole band of
desperadoes recognising Narvaez Cifuentes as their
leader might be in the wood.  He had not ridden
half a mile further when the horse of D'Estouville
passed him at a rapid trot, with its bridle-rein
trailing on the ground and the saddle reversed,
hanging under its belly, girths uppermost.  Some
terrible catastrophe must have happened!  A
groan broke from Ronald; and in an agony of
apprehension for the fate of the fair rider, he madly
goaded onward the horse he rode, using the point
of his sword as a substitute for spurs, which as a
regimental infantry officer he did not wear.

The mules of the priest and paisana, grazing
the herbage at the entrance of the wood, next
met his view.  The light-coloured garments of a
female form lying on the road, caused him to
spring from the saddle in dismay.  It was not
Catalina, but the poor peasant-girl of Almarez:
her gilt crucifix, which she had worn ostentatiously
on her bare bosom, was gone, as was likewise
the trunk-mail which she had carried.  She
was lying dead, stabbed by a dagger in the throat,
where a ghastly wound appeared.  The feathers
and veil of Catalina's hat lay fluttering near, and
the bruised and torn appearance of the grass and
bushes bore evidence that some desperate struggle
had taken place here.  These outrages seemed
to have been committed recently, as the cheek
of the dead girl was yet warm and soft, when
Ronald touched it.

"God help you, Catalina!  My thoughtlessness
has destroyed you: 'tis I that have done all this!"
he exclaimed, as he struck his hand passionately
upon his forehead, and reeled against a tree.

"*O gracios caballero!*" said a decrepit and
wrinkled old man, arrayed in the garb of some
religious order, emerging as if from concealment
among the trees; "a most horrible scene has
been acted here.  I saw it from among the olive
bushes, where I lay sleeping till the noise awoke me."

"The donna, *mi amigo*,—the young lady, where
is she?  Tell me, for the love of that Virgin you
adore so much!"

"*O los infidelos!* and dost not thou adore her?"
asked the old man querulously, while his sunken
and bleared eyes kindled and lighted up.

"Trifle not, old man, but tell me instantly!"
cried Stuart, in a hoarse and furious voice.

"'Twas done in a moment,—*en quitam alia essas
pajas*, as the proverb says."

"Curse on your proverb—"

"'Tis no business of mine, *senor soldado*, and I
will have nought to do with it.  *A otro perro con
esse huesso*, says the proverb."

"Wretch! you will drive me distracted!  Tell
me what you have seen, or, in despite of your
grey hairs, I will cleave you to the teeth.  The
senora—"

"Was dragged into the forest about an hour
ago, and horrible noises have come from it ever
since, disturbing me and keeping me from sleep.
'Tis hard for an old man to be annoyed: the
proverb says—"

"Silence!" replied the other, placing his hand
on the toothless mouth of the poor dotard.
"Surely I heard something!"

At that moment a despairing cry, such as it is
seldom one's lot to hear, arose from the dingles of
the wood, and seemingly at no great distance.
Stuart waited to hear no more, but rushed with
his drawn weapon towards the spot, making the
forest ring with threats, cries, and the bold holloa
with which he had learned to awake the echoes of
his native hills and rocks.  His Highland habits
as a forester and huntsman, acquired under the
tuition of Donald Iverach, when tracking the fox
and the deer, gave him good aid now, and unerringly
he followed the direction of that terrible cry.

He had not penetrated above a hundred yards
among the beeches and cork wood, when, on
breaking into a narrow pathway, he found lying
motionless on the sod and bedabbled with blood,
from a wound in her bosom, the unfortunate of
whom he was in search.

"Catalina of Villa Franca!  Adored Catalina!"
he exclaimed, in accents of horror and affection,
as he tossed his sword from him and sunk down
beside her on his knees; "this—this is all my
doing.  I have brought you to destruction by
entrusting you, in an evil hour, to a bandit and
matador!"

He had no idea of pursuing the assassin.  His
whole soul was wrapt up in the sad spectacle
before him, and he thought only of endeavouring to
save her, if possible, before she perished from loss
of blood, which was flowing freely from a deep
dagger-wound in her pure and beautiful neck,
evidently from the same weapon which had
struck Major Campbell, and slain the *paisana* by
a blow in the same part of the frame.  Her bosom
was exposed and covered with the red current,
which stained the moonlit leaves and petals of the
forest-flowers where she lay.  Unflinchingly had
Ronald that morning beheld men weltering and
wallowing in blood; but he shrunk in agony at
the sight of Catalina's.

"Catalina de Villa Franca! dearest, hear my
voice!  Speak to me.  Never until this moment
of horror and woe did I know how much I loved
you."  He rent the silk sash from his shoulder[\*]
and endeavoured to stanch the blood, while the
unfortunate girl opened her lustrous eyes, and
gazed upon him with a look which, while it told
of exquisite pain—of love and delight, too surely
convinced him, by its terrible expression, that she
was—dying.

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[\*] The crimson sash is worn over the left shoulder in
Highland regiments.

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"You have come, Ronald.  I expected you
many—many months ago," she whispered in
broken accents, while her wild black eyes were
fixed on his with an expression of tenderness.
"Hold me up, dearest—hold me up, that I may
look upon you for the last time,—on the face I
have loved so long, and used to dream about in
the long nights at Merida and Almarez.  O that
my brother, Alvaro, was here too!  Holy—holy
Mother of God! look on me—I am dying!"

"Ah, Catalina! speak not thus: every word
sinks like a sword into my heart.  Dying! oh, it
cannot be!  You shall live if the aid of art and
affection can preserve you.  You *shall* live," he
added frantickly, "and for me."

"O no—never—not for you!" she said bitterly,
in tones gradually becoming more hollow,
"it may not be.  Alas!  I am not what I was an
hour ago.  I cannot,—I cannot now be yours,
even should I escape death, whose cold hand is
passing over my heart."

"Almighty Power, preserve my senses!  What
is this you say?" he replied, raising her head
upon his knee, and gathering in his hand the
soft dishevelled curls which streamed freely upon
the turf.  "What mean these terrible words,
Catalina?"

Before she replied, a shudder convulsed her
frame, and drops of white froth fell from her lips.
A strange light sparkled in her eyes: there was
something singularly fearful and beautiful in the
expression of her pale countenance at that moment.

"I need not shrink from telling you the dreadful
truth,—I need not deceive you," she added,
speaking more fluently as a passionate flow of
tears relieved her.  "I feel in my heart a sensation,
which announces that the moment of dissolution
is at hand.  I hail it with joy,—I wish not
to live.  The wretch who deceived us has robbed
me of that which is most precious to a woman,
and then with his dagger—"

A moan escaped the lips of Ronald, and he
gnashed his teeth with absolute fury, while big
drops, glittering in the moonlight, stood upon his
pale forehead, and his throat became so swollen
that he was almost choked.  He snatched up his
sword, and with difficulty restrained the
inclination he felt to rush deeper into the wood, in
search of Cifuentes.  But how could he leave
Catalina, the torn and disordered condition of
whose garments, together with the wounds and
bruises on her delicate hands and arms, bore
evidence that a desperate struggle had taken
place before the first outrage was accomplished.
Stuart reeled as if a ball had passed through his
brain, and the forest-trees seemed to rock around
him as if shaken by an earthquake.  The fierce
emotion passed away, and was succeeded by a
horrible calmness,—a feeling of settled and
morbid desperation.  He passed his hand once or
twice over his brow, as if to clear his thoughts
and arrange them before he again knelt beside
Catalina, who had closed her eyes and lay still,
as if in a deep slumber.  He thought that the
spirit had passed from her; but the faint beating
of her heart, as he laid his cheek on her soft
breast, convinced him that she yet lived.  Raising
her from the ground, he endeavoured to make
his way through the wood to where he had left
the aged priest, to the end that some means
might be procured to save her life, if it was yet
possible to do so.  But he had not borne her a
dozen yards, when the branch of a tree tore off
the sash with which he had hastily bound up the
wound, and the blood gushed forth with greater
violence than before.

"Mother Mary, be gracious unto me! and forgive
me if I think of aught else than heaven in
this awful moment!" murmured Catalina in a soft
and plaintive voice.  "Ah, the pangs, the
torments I endure!  Oh, *mi querida*, carry me no
further; 'tis useless,—I am dying.  Alas! dishonoured
as I am, I would not wish to live.  Lay
me down here, where the grass is soft and green.
Ronald, here ends our love and my hope together!"

In Stuart's face there was an expression which
pen can never describe, as he laid her down
gently on the turf, and sustaining her head upon
his arm, bent over her in silent sorrow and
misery.

"Are you near me still, *mi querida*?" she
murmured tremulously.

"Catalina, I am yet with you,—my arm is
around you."

"Alas! the light has left my eyes: death is
darkening my vision."

"Mercy of Heaven! it cannot be thus,—they
are bright as ever; but a cloud has overshadowed
the moon."

"Ronald, it is the hand of death: I see you
no longer.  Are you near me?"

"My hands are pressing yours,—alas! they are
very cold and clammy."

"I feel them not: the numbness of my limbs
will soon extend to my breast.  When I am gone,
let twelve masses he said for my soul.  Alas,
you will think them of no use!  But promise me
this, that I may die more easily and peacefully."

"I do, Catalina, I do."

"O that Alvaro was here, that I might hear the
sound of his voice,—that he might hear mine for
the last time, before I pass to the world of shadows.
He will be lonely in the world without me.  Alvaro
is the last of his race,—the last of a long line of
illustrious hidalgos.  Holy Lady of Majorga,—sweet
*San Juan de Dios*, intercede for me!  Dearest
Ronald, kiss me—kiss me for the last time,
while I have yet feeling, for death is chilling my
whole frame."

In an agony of love and sorrow, he passionately
pressed his lips to those of the dying girl.  She
never spoke again.  It almost seemed as if he had
intercepted her last breath, for at the moment
their lips met, a slight tremour passed over her
whole form, and the pure spirit of the beautiful
donna had fled for ever.





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.. _`EL CONVENTO DE SANTA CRUZ`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X.


.. class:: center medium bold

   EL CONVENTO DE SANTA CRUZ.

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..

   |  "The abbess was of noble blood,
   |  But early took the veil and hood;
   |  Ere upon life she cast a look,
   |  Or knew the world that she forsook."
   |                            *Marmion*, canto ii.

.. vspace:: 2

Grey daylight was straggling through the
mullioned windows of the nunnery of Santa Cruz
de Jarciejo, which stood close on the skirts of the
wood, when the portress was aroused from her
straw pallet by a loud peal at the bell, which hung
in the porch.  On withdrawing the wooden cover
of the vizzy hole in the outer door, she crossed
herself, and turned up her eyes; and instead of
attending to those without, ran to tell the lady
abbess that a British officer on horseback, bearing
in his arms a dead woman, had been led thither
by the old padre Ignacio el Pastor, who was
demanding admittance.  The abbess, who in the
convent was known as *El Madre Santa Martha*,
had many scruples about opening the gates to
them; but another tremendous peal at the bell,
seconded by a blow which Ronald dealt with the
basket-hilt of his sword on the iron-studded door,
put an end to the matter, and she desired the
portress to usher them into the *parlatorio*.
Entering the gateway in the massive wall surrounding
the gardens of the convent, they were led through
the formal lines of flower-beds and shrubbery to
the main building, where a carved gothic door in
a low round archway, on the key-stone of which
appeared a mouldered cross, gave them admittance
to the chamber called the *parlatorio*, where
the sisters were allowed to receive the visits of
their friends at the iron gratings in a stone-screen
which crossed the room, completely separating it
from the rest of the convent.  These grates were
strong bars of iron, crossed and recrossed with
wire, so as to preclude all possibility of touching
the inmates, who now crowded close to them, all
gazing with amazement and vague apprehension
at the corpse of the young lady, which the officer
deposited gently on a wooden bench, and seated
himself beside it in apathetic sorrow, unmindful
of the many pitying eyes that were fixed upon
him.  Meanwhile the lady abbess, a handsome
woman about twenty, with a stately figure, a
remarkably fine face, and soft hazel eyes, entered
the apartment, and advanced to where Catalina
lay with the tenderest commiseration strongly
marked on her features, which, like those of the
sisterhood, were pale and sallow from confinement.

For an explanation of the scene before her,
she turned to the decrepit old priest Ignacio el
Pastor, or *the Shepherd*, a name which he had
gained in consequence of his having become a
guardian of Merino sheep among the mountains
of the Lina on the demolition of his monastery,
which had been destroyed by the French troops
when Marshal Massena was devastating the
country in his retreat.

Interlarding his narrative with many a Spanish
proverb, he related the tale of Catalina's
assassination.  The querulous tones of his voice were
interrupted by many a soft expression of pity and
pious ejaculation from the sisters at the grating,
gazing with morbid curiosity on the fair form of
the dead, whose high bosom was covered with
coagulated blood, and the long spiral curls of whose
ringlets swept the pavement of the chamber.

The lady abbess, who was far from being one
of those sour ancient dames that the superiors of
convents are generally reputed to be, seated
herself by Ronald's side, and seeing that, although
his proud dark eyes were dry and tearless, he was
deeply afflicted, she prayed him to be comforted;
but he hid his face among the thick tresses of the
dead, and made no immediate reply.

"She is indeed most beautiful!  As she now
lies, her features wear a sublimity which might
become an image of Our Lady," observed the
abbess, passing her hand softly over the cold white
brow of Catalina.  "She seems only to sleep,—her
white eyelids and long black lashes are so
placidly closed!  And this is the sister of the
noble Cavalier de Villa Franca, of whom we hear
so much?  If man can avenge, Don Alvaro will
do it amply."

"Avenge her!" muttered Ronald through his
clenched teeth.  "Noble senora, that task shall
be mine—"

"Alas! cavalier," interrupted the abbess, "we
commit a deadly sin in talking thus."

"*Echemos pelillos a la mar*, says the proverb;
we must forget and forgive," chimed in El Pastor.
"Vengeance belongs not to this earth,—'tis not
ours, miserable reptiles that we are.  What
sayeth the holy writ?  Lo, you now—"

"Peace, Ignacio; I would speak.  You are getting
into the burden of some old sermon of yours,
and it is a wonder you put so many words
together without another proverb," said the lady
abbess, as she took Ronald's hand kindly within
her own, which indeed was a very soft and white
one.  "El Pastor's account of this affair is
somewhat confused.  Tell me, senor, how long it is
since this dreadful deed was perpetrated?"

"But yesternight—only yesternight.  To me it
appears as if a thousand years had elapsed since
then, and the events of years ago seem to have
passed but yesterday.  All is confusion and chaos
in my mind."

"The noble senora was, perhaps, some relation
of yours?'

"No.  She is of Spain,—I of Scotland."

"Your wife, possibly, senor?"

"My wedded wife indeed she would have been,
had she lived; but that resolve came too late!"
he replied in a troubled voice, as he pressed the
hand of Catalina to his lips.  "But, senoritas, I
must not spend longer time in childish sorrow,"
he added, starting up and erecting his stout and
handsome figure before the eyes of the sisterhood,
who, in spite of their veils and hoods knew how
to admire a smart young soldier with a war-worn
suit of harness.  "It would not become me to do
so, and my duties call me elsewhere.  Every
means must be taken to bring retribution on the
head of the demon Narvaez, and I trust that the
great Power which suffers no crime to pass
unpunished, will aid me in discovering him one day
before I leave Spain.  Divine vengeance will again
place him at my mercy as he has been twice
before, when, but for my ill-timed interference, Don
Alvaro had slain him, and my heart leaps within
me at the thought of having his base blood upon
my weapon.  Yes, senoritas, his blood, shed with
my own hands and streaming hot and thick upon
them, can alone avenge the death of Catalina.
Some fatality seems continually to throw this
monster in my way, and if ever we cross each
other again, most fully, amply, and fearfully shall
this unfortunate be revenged; for I have sworn a
secret oath—an oath which may not be broken,
that wherever I meet Cifuentes within the realm
of Spain—on moor or mountain, in city, camp, or
field, there will I slay him, though the next
moment should be my last!"

His form appeared to dilate while he spoke,
and his eyes sparkled with a keen and fiery
expression, which attested the firmness of his
determination and the bold recklessness of his heart.
The excitement under which he laboured imparted
a new eloquence to his tones and grace to
his gesture; but he panted rather than breathed
while he spoke, and the fierce glitter of his eye,
together with the strange ferocity of the words
which his love and sorrow prompted, caused the
timid nuns of Santa Cruz to shrink back from the
iron gratings.

"Ah! senor," said the abbess, laying her hand
upon his shoulder, "I have already said vengeance
is not ours.  But you have spoken gallantly!"

"A noble cavalier!  Viva!" cried El Pastor, in
a chuckling tone; "Hernandez de Cordova could
not have spoken more bravely.  *Bueno como el
pan*, as the old proverb tells us."

But when this burst of passion evaporated, he
was again the sad and sorrowful young man that
he had at first appeared.  As he refused to
partake of any refreshment, although pressed by the
abbess to do so, the padre El Pastor led him out
to the convent garden, while the nuns made
preparations for the entombment of Catalina in their
oratory, or chapel.  It was a bright sunshine
morning; but Ronald was careless of its beauty
and of the fragrance of the flowers freshly
blooming in the morning dew; the beautiful
arrangements of the place, the arbours, the sparkling
fountains, the statues of stone and marble,—he
passed them all by unheeded.  Hobbling by his
side, El Pastor, instead of endeavouring to console
him for his loss, poured into his unheeding ears,
with a string of old proverbs and wise saws, a
tough lecture for the irreverent manner in which
he had treated the name of Madre-Maria the
evening before, until the impatient Highlander
strode away, and left him to commune alone.

That night Catalina was buried in the chapel.
The building was brilliantly illuminated with
coloured lamps, the softened lights of which were
reflected from the gilded columns,—from the
organ, with its tall row of silver-trumpet like
pipes,—from the rich altars and statues of
polished metal placed in niches, where golden
candlesticks bore tall twinkling tapers, which from
their recesses cast a strange light on the marble
tombs of knights and long-departed warriors,
whose rusty swords, spurs, and faded banners were
yet in some places hung over them, and whose
deeds were represented on the ancient pieces of
mouldy and moth-eaten tapestry which hung
gloomily on the side walls of the chapel,
contrasting strongly with the glittering images and
gorgeously coloured Scripture-pieces, many of them
said to be the productions of Alonza Cano, the
Michael Angelo of Spain, who flourished during
the seventeenth century.

Ronald Stuart, the only mourner there, walked
by the side of the shell, or basket of wicker-work,
which contained all that remained of Catalina, and
which was borne through the chapel and deposited
on the high altar by six of the youngest nuns,—three
on each side, carrying it by handles projecting
from the sides of the frame.

The requiem for the dead was now chanted,
and the dulcet notes of the lofty organ, blending
in one delightful strain with the melodious voices
of the nuns, ringing among the pillared aisles,
echoing in the hollow vaults, and dying away in
the distant arches of the cloisters, produced such
heavenly sounds as subdued the heart of Stuart,
softening and soothing his sorrow.  He listened in
a sort of ecstacy, almost deeming that the thrilling
voice of Catalina was mingled with the inspiring
harmony he heard.  He was moved to tears, tears
of sadness and enthusiasm, and almost involuntarily
he sunk on his knees at the marble steps
of the altar, an attitude which raised him
immensely in the estimation of El Pastor and the
sisterhood, while the bright eyes of the mitred
abbess sparkled as she stretched her white
hands glittering with jewels over him, as if
welcoming him to that church, the tenets of which
he had never yet inquired into.  He had knelt
down thus merely from excess of veneration and
a holy feeling, with which the sublime service of
the Roman Catholic church had inspired him.
The music arose to its utmost pitch at that
moment; the voices of the nuns and choristers
mounted to the full swell; the trumpets of the
organ pealed along the groined roof, and caused
the massive columns and the pavement beneath
them to tremble and vibrate with the soul-stirring
grandeur of the sound.

In the chancel, before the great altar, a pavement
stone had been raised and a deep grave dug,
the soil of which lay piled in a gloomy heap on
the lettered stones around its yawning mouth.

On the chant being ended, four priests bore the
bier of Catalina to the side of the grave which
was to receive her.  The wicker-coffin or shell
had no lid, and Ronald now looked upon her pale
and still beautiful features for the last time.  She
was not enveloped in a ghastly shroud, but, after
the fashion of her own country, had been arrayed
by the nuns in a dress of the whitest muslin,
adorned with the richest lace and edgings of
needle-work.  Her fine hair was disposed over her
neck and bosom.  A large chaplet of freshly
gathered white roses encircled her forehead,
giving her the appearance of a bride dressed for
the bridal rather than a corse for the tomb; and,
but for the mortal paleness of her complexion, one
would have supposed that she only slept, so
placidly did her closed eye-lashes repose upon her
soft cheek.

While a slow, sad, but exquisitely melancholy
dirge arose, the bare-footed priests proceeded to
lower her into the cold damp grave, but in a
manner so peculiar and revolting, that the lover, who
had never witnessed a Spanish interment before,
almost sprung forward to stay their proceeding.
Instead of lowering the coffin into the grave, they
took out the body, permitting it to sink gently
into its narrow bed without other covering than
the lace and muslin, part of which El Pastor drew
over her face and ringlets, to hide them from
mortal eyes for ever.  Each monk now seized
a shovel, and rapidly the coffinless remains
were covered up with dry sand, provided for
the purpose.

The feelings of poor Ronald were sadly outraged
at the barbarous mode of interment common in
Spain for those not of the families of grandees, but
remonstrance would have been unavailing.  The
scraping and jarring of the iron shovels on the
pavement, as they hurled in decayed bones, damp
red clay, stones, and sand on that fair and
unprotected form, grated horribly on his ears; but
how did he shrink and revolt from the *pummeling*
of the body!  A stout padre, seizing a billet of
wood, shod with an iron ferule like a pavier's
rammer, began to tread upon the grave and
rapidly beat down the earth into it, so that all that
had been taken out should be again admitted.  He
had not given a dozen strokes in this disgusting
manner, before Ronald shook off his apathy; and
grasping him by the cope, dragged him fiercely
backwards, commanding them at once to desist
from a proceeding so distressing.  Two priests,
with the aid of iron levers, deposited a slab of
marble above the tomb, and it was closed for ever.
It bore the hastily carved legend,—

   |  *Agui yace Catalina de Villa Franca.*
   |

The slab probably remains yet in the chapel, if
the convent of Santa Cruz has escaped the wars
of the Carlists and Christinos.  As soon as this
sad ceremony was concluded, Ronald retired.

Two-and-thirty years have now elapsed since
the tomb closed over Catalina, but time has not yet
effaced from Stuart's memory the emotions which
he felt when hearing the sound of the dull cold
earth falling on her unshrouded bosom!  In the
*parlatorio* he composed himself to write a long
letter to Donna Inesella, giving an account of her
cousin's destruction, and bitterly upbraiding
himself as being the leading cause in the affair,
although in reality he was not.  The reader will
remember, that it was her own desire and
determination to confide herself to the care of the
pretended priest at Almarez.

Owing to the tumult in his mind, Ronald found
the composition of the letter no easy task,
especially as that garrulous old man, El Pastor,
remained at his elbow, chattering away on
unconnected subjects, and bringing out now and then
some musty Spanish proverb.

"Look ye, senor," said he, regardless of the
blots and blunders that his interruptions caused
Stuart to make; "do you see that image of our
Holy Lady in the niche yonder?"

"Well, padre?"

"'Tis the work of Alonza Cano."

"Pshaw! what is that to me?  I never heard
of the gentleman before."

"He was the first of Spanish architects and
painters, and with his own hands adorned many
of our finest churches and palaces.  He was born
at Grenada in the year 1600, and as the proverb
says—"

"Never mind what it says.  For Heaven's sake,
*mi amigo*, leave me to write in peace."

"Did you but know that he lost the woman
he loved by a dagger-stroke from a matador, you
would probably care more for the story of his
singular misfortunes."

"Pardon me, padre," said Ronald, with a
melancholy interest; "what were they?"

"The full career of Alonza's glory was cut short
thus.  One evening, on returning home, he found
his wife, a most beautiful woman, lying dead, with
a dagger planted in her heart.  His servant, a vile
Italian, the perpetrator of the deed, had fled, and
by order of the alcalde Mayor, Alonza was
arrested, and charged with having slain the lady in
a fit of jealousy.  The dagger which the assassin
used, was known to be that of Alonza; he was a
man naturally of a fierce and jealous temper, and
had kept watchful eyes on the senora, who was
the handsomest woman that ever promenaded on
the Prado, or Plaza, at Madrid; and the compliments
paid her by the gay cavaliers and guardsmen
of the capital were as molten lead poured
into the heart of her husband, though of course
very proud of her, for she was a fine creature,—*Como
un palmito*, as the old proverb says."

"Is this all the story, Ignacio?"

"The rest is yet to come.  The *tail* is the worst,
senor; as the old saw says,—*Aun lefalta la cola
por desollar*."

"The devil take your saws and proverbs!  You
are as full of them as your countryman Sancho
Panza."

"Well, senor; Alonza was racked without mercy
to extort confession, and he endured the most
horrible torments without uttering a word to criminate
himself.  By the king's order he was set free, and
died at a great age, a poor priest like myself.  In
his dying hour, when a brother held the crucifix
before his glazing eyes, he desired him to remove
it, saying the image of our Saviour was so clumsily
done, that the sight of it pained him; as the
proverb says, senor, *De paja*—"

But Ronald did not permit him to finish the
adage, requesting him to retire in a manner that
was not to be disputed.  Early next morning he
was despatched to Idanha-a-Velha, bearing the
letter for Donna Inesella.  He resolutely refused
to take a single maravedi to defray his expenses,
although the journey was a very long one.  So
simple were his habits of living, learned while a
shepherd among the mountains, that he could
easily subsist on charity and what he could pick
up by the way-side, where ripe oranges, luscious
grapes, and juicy pumpkins grew wild, or by
chanting songs to the sound of the rebeck,—a
primitive kind of guitar, having only three strings.

"I am accustomed to a wandering life, senor,"
said he, as he bade Ronald adieu; "it suits and
squares with me perfectly,—*Quadrado y esquinado*,
as the proverb has it.  Frail and withered
as I appear, I can well bear fatigue, and am as
tough as an old toledo, and will undertake to
reach Idanha-a-Velha almost as soon as if mounted
on the best mule that ever bore the sign of the
cross on its back."

To keep his promise, pledged to Catalina,
Ronald paid into the treasury of the convent two
golden onzas, to obtain masses for her departed
spirit.  Let it not be imagined for a moment that
he believed in their efficacy; but he remembered
that it was Catalina's wish—indeed almost her
last request, that such should be done, and he
paid the onzas rather as a duty of affection than
religion.  This act left him in indifferent
pecuniary circumstances, as it carried off the whole
month's subsistence which he had received from
the regimental paymaster, after the storm of
Almarez.  Pay was a scarce matter with the
Peninsular troops, who, at the time the battle of
Vittoria was fought, had not received a single
farthing for upwards of six months.

An apartment opening off the *parlatorio* had
been fitted up for Ronald, by the orders of the
lady abbess, and perhaps this was the only
occasion ever known of a man sleeping under the roof
of the Convent of the Holy Cross,—an event
which, had it happened during the days of the
terrible Inquisition, would probably have been
the means of dooming the abbess to death, and
her nuns to some severe penance.

It was a gloomy little chamber, with a grated
window, through which came the rays of the
moon, and the rich fragrance of flowers from the
garden.  A gaudily painted Spanish bedstead,
without curtains, stood in one corner, and a
solitary chair resting in another constituted its
furniture, unless I include a large wooden crucifix
reared against the wall, and a skull, ghastly and
grinning, placed near it on a bracket.  Ronald
scarcely slept during all that night.  His mind
was alternately a prey to the deepest sorrow and
wildest longings for vengeance, that the human
heart is capable of feeling.  Many were the plans
which his fertile imagination suggested for the
discovery of the matador; but owing to the totally
disorganized state of the country, the subversion
of its laws, and the weakness of its civil
authorities, he was aware that his attempts would be
alike fruitless and unavailing, and that the
cavalier, Don Alvaro, from the rank of his family, his
known bravery, and favour among the populace,
would be more likely to have him brought to justice.

At times, when the outrage which Catalina had
suffered came vividly into his imagination, his
blood boiled within him, and his heart panted
with a tiger-like feeling for revenge—deep,
deadly, and ample revenge; and nothing short of the
blood of Cifuentes, shed with his own sword,
could satisfy the cravings he felt for retribution.
The next moment he was all-subdued in grief and
tenderness, when he remembered the happy days
he had spent with Catalina at Merida, the soft
expression of her eyes, the sweet tones of her
voice, their rambles among the ruins and rich
scenery of the city, its sunny streets and shady
public walks, where she was the leading belle,
and the glory, delight, and admiration of the
cloaked and moustached cavaliers, and the envy
of the veiled and stately donnas who frequented
the green Prado in the evening, or promenaded
under the cool arches of the *paseo* during the
hottest part of the day.  While the recollections
of these departed moments of transitory enjoyment
passed in quick succession through his
mind, Alice Lisle was not forgotten; but the
remembrance of her only added to the tortures of
that mental rack, on which Stuart appeared to
be stretched.

Thoughts of the days that were gone—days
spent in perfect happiness with her,—thoughts
that he strove in vain to repel, arose at times,
causing his divided heart to swell within his
bosom till its cords seemed about to snap.  Love
struggled strongly with love in his breast.  He
unclasped the miniature of Alice, and gazed upon
it by the light of the moon.  He had not looked
upon it for many, many months, and his eyes filled
with tears while he did so now, and recalled the
joyous expression of her hazel eye and merry
ringing of her girlish laugh; but when he thought
of Lord Hyndford, the newspaper paragraph, and
the cold conduct of her brother, he closed it with
vehemence, and looked upon it no more that night.
Even a long wished-for slumber, when it came at
last, was disturbed by dreams no less painful
than his waking thoughts.

He imagined that he was in the splendid chapel
of Santa Cruz, and that Catalina stood beside
him in all her dignity and beauty, arrayed as he
had seen her last in a profusion of white lace and
muslin.  She yet lived!  The idea of her death
was but a horrible dream.  O what ecstacy was
in that thought!  No black tomb was yawning
in the chancel, but the aisles were crowded by a
gay party, whose forms appeared wavering, indistinct,
and indescribable.  But Ronald recked not
of them; Catalina was there, with her eyes sparkling,
her cheek blushing, and her tresses flowing
as of old, and orange-buds were entwined with the
white roses of her coronal.  He embraced her,—but,
lo! a change came over the features of the
Spanish maiden, and they became the softer, but
equally beautiful features of Alice Lisle!  A low
and heavenly melody stole upon his ears,—he
started, and awoke.

The music he had heard in his sleep was filling
every part of the convent, announcing that morning
matins had begun.  Stuart sprang from the
couch, troubled with his visions and unrefreshed
by his slumbers.  He hastily donned his
regimentals, and entering the chapel, seated himself
in that part which was separated from the nuns
by a strong, but richly gilt iron railing.  He was
surveyed with no small interest by the sequestered
sisterhood, to whom it was an uncommon
event to have within their walls a male guest, so
different from the bearded and shorn priests who
came as privileged individuals.  A handsome
young soldado, wearing the martial garb of a land
which was, in their ideas of geography, at an
immense distance, and of which they had strange
notions, especially of the ferocity and wildness of
its mountaineers, was an object of thrilling
interest to these timid creatures, who trembled at the
very mention of the dangers which their military
guest had seen and dared.  He was very different
from Pietro, their deformed gardener, or El Pastor,
that budget of proverbs, who was their daily
visitor; and many bright and beautiful eyes,
though screened by hood of serge and veil of
lawn, were fixed searchingly upon him from the
organ-loft and altar-steps; but their presence was
unheeded and uncared-for by Stuart, whose eyes
were bent on the grey slab in the centre of the
chancel, while his thoughts were with the cold
and coffinless form that lay beneath it, bruised
and crushed down in that dark and gloomy hole
under a load of earth.  It was not until the
matins were ended and the sisters had withdrawn,
that he remembered where he was, and
that the sooner he prepared to rejoin his regiment
and apologize for his singular absence the better.
Indeed he had begun to feel some most unpleasant
qualms and doubts as to the issue of the matter,
with so strict a commanding-officer as Cameron
of Fassifern,—*the chief*, as he was named by the
mess; and visions of a general court-martial,—a
formidable array of charges, and a sentence to be
cashiered, "a sentence of which His Majesty is
most graciously pleased to approve," arose before him.

He knew not whither the troops might have
marched from Almarez; and he feared that by
crossing the Lina hills, which were many miles
distant, he might fall into the hands of the
French, who he knew occupied the adjacent
country.  For some time he was at a loss how to act;
but, after due consideration, was led to believe
that he might fall in with some of the British
troops at Truxillo, for which place he determined
to depart immediately, remembering at the same
time that he should have to appease the wrath of
the Buenos Ayrean campaigner Don Gonzago,
who would undoubtedly be very indignant at his
niece's interment without his knowledge; but, in
fact, Ronald Stuart had totally forgotten the
existence of her uncle, which was the reason of
the oversight.  As he left the chapel, he was met
by the demure and starched old portress, who
invited him to breakfast with the lady abbess in
an arbour in the garden.  It would have been
inconsistent with courtesy and gallantry to have
refused, and contrary to his own inclination, for
in truth he was half famished, as he had not
'broken bread' since the night before the capture
of Almarez, and nature demanded nourishment.
In the arbours of the garden, which were formed
of heavy masses of blooming rose-trees, honeysuckle,
and vines, supported by green painted
trellis-work, the nuns were seated at their simple
repast, which was no sooner over, than they
commenced their daily occupation of making
pincushions, embroidered shirt-collars, tinting fans,
and working brocade dresses, all of which were
sold for the benefit of the poor, or of the funds of
the convent.

In a large arbour, at the back of which a cool
spring of sparkling water bubbled up in a marble
basin, the smiling abbess was seated, awaiting
her guest.  The table was covered with a white
cloth, wrought over with religious emblems,
variously coloured, and in elaborate needle-work.
A Spanish breakfast is usually a very simple one,
but the abbess had made an unusual display this
morning.  There were platters filled with grapes
and oranges, freshly pulled from the branches
that formed the roof of the arbour.  A vase of
boiled milk, flanked by two silver cups of
chocolate—so thick that the spoons stood in it, bread,
butter, eggs, jellies, and marmalade, composed
the repast; to which was added a flask of the
wine of Ciudad Real, a place long famous for the
quality of its produce.

The abbess did the honours of the table with
a grace which showed that, when in the world,
she had been accustomed to the best society in
Spain.  There was a sweetness in her tones and
an elegance in every movement, which could not
have failed to charm one less absorbed in other
thoughts than Ronald Stuart.  However, he could
not help remarking the fine form of her hands,
the dazzling whiteness of her arm, and the beauty
of her dark brown curls, which she wore in
unusual abundance, and showed rather more than
was quite in character with one of her profession.
Stuart was too full of thought to prove an
agreeable companion, and behaved, I dare say, so very
inattentively, that the gay abbess thought him a
very dull fellow, notwithstanding his Highland
uniform, and the lively account he gave of his
own distant home and what he had seen on
service in Spain.

After paying a last visit to the tomb of Catalina,
he departed from the convent.  The abbess
made a sign of the cross on his forehead, kissed
him on both cheeks, gave him her solemn blessing
in Latin, and dismissed him at the back gate
of the building, which stood on the Truxillo road.

As he rode along, mounted again on Campbell's
horse, many a glance he gave behind him, not at
the figure of the abbess, who waved her kerchief
from the gate, but at the gothic pinnacles and
high stone-roof of the chapel, beneath which lay
the mortal remains of the once-generous and
ardent Catalina.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A SINGLE COMBAT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A SINGLE COMBAT.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "And lang they foucht, and sair they foucht,
   |    Wi' swords of mettyl kene;
   |  Till clotted bluid, in mony a spot,
   |    Was sprynkelit on the grene."
   |                                  *Gilmanscleugh.*

.. vspace:: 2

It was a delightful summer morning: there
was an exhilarating freshness in the air, which
raised the spirits of Stuart, as the distance
increased between him and the scene of his sorrows.
The merry birds were hopping and chirping about
from spray to spray; the wild flowers which
blossomed by the way-side were giving forth their
richest perfume, and expanding their dewy cups
and leaves to the warmth of the rising sun.
Behind him lay the dark wood of Jarciejo, and
above it arose the curved ridges of the Lina,—their
bright tints mellowed by distance as they
stretched away towards New Castile.  Before him
lay a long tract of beautiful country, tufted woods
and vineyards, with here and there yellow
cornfields, rocks surmounted by old feudal strongholds,
most of them ruinous; and in many places
by the road-side, the blackened remains of the
cottages of the paisanos marked the ruthless
devastations made by Massena in his retreat some
time before.

Ronald would have contemplated with delight
the varying of the landscape as he rode along,
but for the sorrow which pressed heavy upon his
heart, intermingled with certain fears of what his
reception might be at the regiment after so
unaccountable a desertion, and in what light it might
be viewed by his brother-officers.  Full of these
exciting ideas, at times he drove his horse
furiously forward, as if he strove to leave his thoughts
behind him, and shorten as much as possible the
distance between himself and his comrades.  He
longed to behold the embattled towers, the slender
spires and belfries of Truxillo, where he hoped to
find his comrades, and explain his singular
disappearance; but Truxillo was yet leagues distant.
As the road plunged down among the green
woodlands through which it wound, he enjoyed the
cool shadow which the tall chesnuts cast over the
otherwise hot dusty road, which shone glaring
and white in the rays of the meridian sun.

A faint chorus came floating on the breeze
towards him as he rode along, and swelled out into
a bold and merry strain on his nearer approach.
The cracking of whips and jingle of innumerable
bells announced a train of muleteers, who came
in view a few seconds afterwards, and gave a
boisterous cheer at sight of the scarlet uniform.
According to the custom of the muleteers during
hot weather, they all wore large cotton handkerchiefs,
knotted round their heads, under their
sombreros; their tasselled jackets were flying
open, and their broad shirt-collars, stiff with
flowers and needlework, were folded over their
shoulders, displaying every bare and brawny neck.
The train halted, and Ronald recognised his old
acquaintance Lazaro Gomez, the master muleteer,
who took off his beaver with one hand, while he
reined-in the leading mule with the other.
Lazaro's speculations appeared to have been successful.
His jacket was now of fine green velvet, covered
with tinsel lace and garnished with about six
dozen of those brass bell-buttons, with which the
muleteers are so fond of adorning their garments.

"Well, Micer Lazaro," said Stuart, "why do
you drive your cattle so fast during the heat of
the day, when they should be enjoying a *siesta*
under the greenwood?  They are likely to drop
before you reach the forest of Jarciejo."

"*Par Diez*!  I hope not, senor," replied the
muleteer, in evident trepidation at the idea.
"They shall reach Jarciejo,—we are ruined else;
and I trust, in this perilous time, that the gracious
senora, our Lady of Majorga," crossing himself
and looking upwards, "will not forget the honest
muleteer, that never passed her shrine without
bestowing on it a handful of maravedis.  She will
put mettle in the legs of his mules, and enable
them to save his hard-earned goods and chattels."

"How, Micer Gomez,—what is the matter?
You seem much excited."

"*Santissima Casa!* is it possible that you know
not the reason, senor.  *El demonio*!  I thought
you had ten thousand British at your back.  The
whole country round about is in possession of the
French, and hard work we have had since we left
Truxillo to escape being plundered of every
maravedi.  And only think, senor, what a loss I should
have suffered!  Why there are thirty skins of the
best wine of Ciudad Real on the black mule,—*Capitana*
we call her,—she takes the lead; as many
skins of the olive oil of Lebrija, the best in Spain,
on the pad of the second,—*Bocaneyra*, or 'the
black muzzle,' as we name it."

"The French—the French at Truxillo!" exclaimed
Ronald in astonishment.  "Where, then,
is Sir Rowland Hill with his troops?'

"On his march for Merida, senor; and by this
time many a league beyond Villa Macia.  On the
third mule—*Castana* we name her, from her
colour, there are twenty arrobas of corn from the
Huerta of Orihuela,[\*] all for the nuns of Santa
Cruz, and worth in reals—"

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] The fertility of Orihuela has become a proverb among the
Spaniards: "Whether there is rain or not, there is always
corn at Orihuela."  *Llueva, o no llueva, trigo en Orihuela*.  An
arroba is a measure containing a quarter of a hundred weight.

.. vspace:: 2

"Are the enemy in great force hereabouts?"
asked Ronald, who felt considerably concerned
for his own safety.

"Truly, senor, I know not; but their light
cavalry are riding in every direction.  Some say
that Marshal Soult, and others that the Count
D'Erlon, has entered Estremadura, and that the
British are all cut to pieces."

"That I do not believe."

"Nor I;—no, by the bones of the Cid Campeador,
'tis not likely.  But as I was saying, senor,
twenty arrobas of corn—"

"Twenty devils!  Halt, Micer Lazaro; if you
stay to tell over the inventory of your goods, you
are not likely to escape the claws of the enemy,
a party of whom I see on the top of the hill
yonder."

A volley of curses broke from the muleteers at
this intelligence.  A party of cavalry in blue
uniform appeared on the road, descending an
eminence at some distance; and the glitter of their
weapons, as they flashed in the sun, was seen
between the branches of the trees.  Crack went
the whips.

"*Ave Maria—demonios—par Diez!* we are
plundered and ruined!" cried the mule-drivers,
as they lashed their long-eared cattle into a trot.
"The rich oil, the wine and corn—*carajo!*—to be
pillaged by the base French!  But what is to be
done?  Were they under the roof of the Santissima
Casa, which the blessed angels brought from
Galilee to Loretto, they would not be safe.
Forward, Capitana! gallant mule, sure of foot and
long of wind.  Hoa, Pedro de Puebla! keep up
your black-muzzled sloth; we will flay its flanks
with our whips else.  Farewell to you, senor!
Our Lady del Pilar aid us! we are in a sad
pickle."  And off they went, without farther
ceremony, at their utmost speed, running by the
side of their mules, and lashing them lustily,
leaving Stuart looking steadily at the advancing
party of horse, but dubious what course to pursue.

He could not stoop to have recourse to a
deliberate flight; and as the enemy was between
him and his friends, it was necessary to elude
them by any means.  Reining back his horse, he
withdrew beneath the cover of a thicket beside
the road.  He was scarcely ensconced among the
foliage, when about twenty *chasseurs à cheval*,
with their short carbines resting on their thighs
and their officer riding in front, wheeled round a
corner of the road, and passed his place of
concealment at an easy pace.  As soon as they were
hidden by the windings of the road and the
heavy green foliage which overshadowed it, Stuart
emerged from his cover, and continued his route
at a hard gallop towards Truxillo, which,
however, he determined to avoid by a detour, in case
of falling in with more of the French.  He had
not ridden a quarter of a mile, before a sudden
angle of the path, which now passed under the
cool shade of several vine-trellises, brought him
abruptly face to face with two French officers,
whose horses were trotting along at a very
ambling rate.  On seeing him they instantly drew
up, while their faces assumed an expression of
unmeasured surprise.  They were not above twelve
yards distant.  Ronald likewise drew his bridle,
and unsheathing his sword, reconnoitred the Gauls,
between whom a few words passed.  One was a
pale and thin man, in a staff uniform embroidered
with oak-leaves.  He carried his right arm in a
black silk sling.  The other was a dashing officer
of cuirassiers, a man of singularly fine and
muscular proportions; he was mounted on a powerful
black war-horse, and wore a high brass helmet,
with the Imperial eagle on its crest, and a plume
of black horse-hair floating over it.  He was
accoutred with a bright steel cuirass and
backplate, and leather jack-boots which came above
the knees.  Both wore splendid epaulets and
aiguillets, and were covered on the breast with
medals and military orders of knighthood,—indeed
there were few French officers who were not so.

Ronald saw at a glance that the heavy dragoon
would be his opponent, and he felt some unpleasant
doubts as to the issue of a conflict with
a practised cavalry officer, and one thus sheathed
in a panoply of steel and leather, while he himself
had nothing to protect him from the blade of his
adversary but his thin regimental coat and tartan
plaid.

The officer with the wounded arm moved his
horse to the road-side, while the cuirassier
twirled his moustaches with a grim smile, and
unsheathed his glittering weapon—a species of long
and straight back-sword, worn by the French
cavalry, and desired Ronald imperiously to
surrender without striking a blow.

"*Rendez sans coup férir, Monsieur Officier*."

Finding that he was not understood, and that
Stuart prepared to defend himself, he reined his
steed back a little way; and then dashing his
spurs into its flanks, came thundering forward at
full speed, shouting "*Vive l'Empereur!*" with his
long blade uplifted, intending to hurl his
adversary into eternity by a single stroke.  But Stuart,
by an adroit management of his horse's bridle,
made a *demi-volte* or half-turn to his left, at the
same time stooping his head till the plumes of his
bonnet mingled with the mane of his horse, to
avoid the Frenchman's sweeping stroke, which
whistled harmlessly through the air; while he in
return dealt him a back-handed blow on the crest
of his helmet as he passed him in his career,
which at once tumbled him over his horse's head
and stretched him senseless in the dust, while his
sword fell from his grasp, and broke in a dozen
pieces.  Elated with this sudden and unlooked-for
success, Ronald brandished his claymore aloft,
and rushed on to the next officer; but drew back,
and lowered the point of his weapon, on perceiving
the startled and indignant look of the veteran,
who held up his wounded arm.

"Pass on, sir!" said Ronald, substituting
Spanish for French, of which he scarcely knew
above a dozen words.  "I might, if I chose, make
you prisoner; but I wish not to take advantage of
your being wounded.  Pass on, sir; the road is
open before you."

The Frenchman appeared to understand him
imperfectly, but raising his cocked hat, he
prepared at once to take the benefit of the
permission.

"Adieu, Monsieur de Mesmai!" said he, on
passing his fallen comrade, adding something in a
whisper, fragments of which only reached Ronald.

"*Malheurs, mon ami—à la guerre—comme à la
guerre—retournez et reprenez-vous—chasseurs à
cheval*," and he galloped off.  Ronald was half
tempted to ride after and cut him down, and thus
securely stop his intention of returning with the
twenty light-horsemen, as he supposed he meant
to do, for the disjointed fragments he had heard
implied an understanding between them.

"*Ah, la malice du diable!*" cried the cuirassier,
as he endeavoured to rise.

"Come, Senor Cuirassier," said Ronald in
Spanish; "I believe I am to consider you a
prisoner on parole?"

"*Diablement!*" muttered the Frenchman,
rubbing his sore bones.

"Come, to horse.  Get into your saddle, and
without delay.  Do not imagine I will parley
here long enough to permit your cunning old
comrade to bring up the light dragoons to your
rescue."

The Gaul still delayed to move, declaring that
so severe were his bruises, he was unable to
rise.

"Monsieur," said Ronald sternly, placing his
hand in his basket-hilt, "I believe you not; 'tis
a mere trick!  And if you do not instantly mount,
I shall be tempted to try if that iron harness of
yours is proof against a stab from such a blade
as this."

Thus angrily urged, the cuirassier with a sullen
look, and some trouble evidently, mounted his
horse, gave his parole of honour, and tossing the
flints from his pistols, threw away with a curse
his empty scabbard, and prepared to follow his
captor, who inquired about his hurts and bruises
with a frank kindness, to which the other replied
by cold and haughty monosyllables; and his
displeasure appeared to increase, when Ronald,
instead of continuing on the Truxillo road, struck
at once across the country to make a detour, thus
cutting off any chance which the Frenchman had
of being rescued by the chasseurs, should his
companion bring them back for that purpose.  Stuart
was secretly well pleased at the capture he had
made, and doubted not that the French capitan
would make a very timely peace-offering to
Cameron, who would be the reverse of well-pleased at
his long absence.

"Cheer up, Monsieur de Mesmai,—I think your
friend named you De Mesmai," said he; "there
is no use in being cast down about this *malheur*.
Such happen daily to our brothers in arms, on
both sides.  And it is a wonder our cases are not
reversed, when my opponent was so accomplished
a chevalier."

De Mesmai twirled his black moustaches, shrugged
his shoulders till his epaulets touched his
ears, and made no reply,—but gave an anxious
glance behind them.

"'Tis no use looking for your friend and his
*chasseurs*; they will scarcely find us, since we
are so far from the main road.  So, I pray you,
give yourself no further concern about them."

To this taunting injunction, the Frenchman
answered only by a stern military frown.  He was
a man above forty years of age, and his figure
was a model of combined strength and symmetry.
Exposure to the sun had turned the hue of his
face to something between deep red and dark
brown,—the former was particularly apparent in
a deep scar across the cheek, which he endeavoured
to hide by the curl of his moustache.  He
appeared to view his captor with any feeling but
a friendly one; indeed it was galling, that an
accomplished cavalry officer like himself should
have been unhorsed and compelled to surrender
by one whom he regarded as a raw soldier,—a
mere stripling; but, as his head had good reason
to know, a very stout one.

"And so Monsieur de Mesmai is your name?"
observed Stuart, endeavouring to lead him into
conversation.  "Surely, I have heard it before."

"'Tis not unlikely, monsieur.  I am pretty well
known on both sides of the Pyrenees; and permit
me to acquaint you, that it was no common feat
of yours to unhorse me as you did to-day.  But
as for my name, it has made a noise in the public
journals once or twice.  You may have heard
it at Almarez,—I commanded in the tower of
Ragusa."

"I now remember; but it was not very kind
of you to cut the pontoon, and thus destroy the
retreat of D'Estouville and his soldiers."

"Charity begins at home.  You know that
vulgar adage,—strictly English I believe it is,"
retorted the cuirassier haughtily.  "*Sacre bleu!* 'tis
something new for a French officer to be schooled
by a British, in the rules of military honour."

"Nothing new in the least, sir!" retorted the
other in the same tone of pique.  "Military
honour!  What think you of the poisoned balls,
which our troops say yours use so freely?"

"*Sacre nom de Dieu!*" exclaimed the cuirassier
hoarsely, while his cheek grew absolutely purple;
"'tis false, monsieur; I tell you 'tis false!  'Tis a
lie of the base mercenary German Legion, or the
rascally Portuguese.  Surely British soldiers
would never say so of Frenchmen?  Think you,
monsieur, that we, whose bayonets have flashed
at Austerlitz and Jena,—think you, that we now
would have recourse to means so foul?  *Sacre!* to
poison our bullets like the cowardly Indians,—and
now, at this time, when under Heaven and the
great Emperor's guidance the rustle of the
banners of France have shaken the world to its
centre?  I trow not!"

"It has been rumoured by our soldiers, however;
but I rely too much on the honour of Frenchmen
to imagine that they would resort to such
dastardly means of maiming an enemy."[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] At one time a report was current among the Peninsular
troops that the French used poisoned balls; but it was a
malicious story, without any foundation.

.. vspace:: 2

"Monsieur, were we otherwise situated, I
would put this matter to the sharper test of cold
iron," replied De Mesmai, who was much ruffled
at the mention of the poisoned balls; "but a time
may yet come, and for the present I accept your
apology.  As for the story of the poisoned balls,
doubtless you are indebted for it to the base
Germans—mercenary dogs! whom their beggarly
princes and little mightinesses sell by thousands
to fight the battles of all nations."

"In our service we have a legion of several
thousands, and they are excellent troops."

"Monsieur, we have many legions.  But the
German is without chivalry or sentiment, and
fitted only for the mere mechanical part of war.
They fight for their daily pay: honour they value
not; to them 'tis as moonshine in the water, an
unsubstantial glitter."

"You are severe, Captain De Mesmai."

"I cannot speak of them in more gentle terms,
when I remember that all the German prisoners
you take from us invariably change banners, and
enlist in your service.  Several battalions have
been raised among the Scottish military prisons
of late.  And these Germans—bah!  But to the
devil with them!"

"By the by,—who was your friend, with his
arm in the sling?  An officer of some rank,
evidently?"

"Truly he is.  I am glad you did not take him
instead of me.  Ah, monsieur, you have outwitted
yourself confoundedly.  What a prize he would
have been to present to your general!  That
officer was Monsieur le Comte D'Erlon."

"D'Erlon!" exclaimed Ronald; "would to
Heaven he would return."

"With the sabres of twenty *chasseurs à cheval*
glittering behind him?"

"No, certainly.  But, oh! had I only guessed
his rank and fame, he should not have escaped
me.  I would either have taken, or cut him down
in his saddle."

"That would have been a pity, for he is a
famous old fellow; but it would have left the
comtesse a widow, with I know not how many
thousand livres in the year.  I know she looks
with favourable eyes on me,—but, *sacre bleu!* 'tis
all in vain.  I don't like ladies that are verging
towards forty years."

"You seem to have recovered your equanimity
of temper now."

"Oh, perfectly; but my head rings like a belfry,
with that cut you gave me."

"So that old officer with his arm slung, was
really the famous D'Erlon, of whom we have
heard so much."

"The gallant old count himself.  He received
a stroke from a spent pistol-ball a day or two
past, which disabled his sword-arm; otherwise you
would have had an encounter with him also."

"I shall ever curse my thoughtlessness, in
having permitted him to escape."

The cuirassier laughed exultingly.

"I am,—*diable*!  I *was* his aide-de-camp; and
we had merely crossed the Tagus last night with
a sub-division of chasseurs, to make a reconnoissance;
and we were returning leisurely in the
rear of our party, when you so unluckily fell in
with us, like some wandering knight-errant."

"Excuse me, monsieur; but as I perceive that
your sabre-tache[\*] is very full of something, if
you have any of the Count d'Erlon's despatches
or papers, I must consider it my duty to request
that you will entrust them to my care."

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.. class: noindent small

[\*] A leather case hanging to the waist-belt of a
dragoon.  It is meant for carrying military papers.

.. vspace:: 2

"Excellent, by the bomb!  That you may present
them to your general?"

"Undoubtedly, monsieur."

"I believe he is every inch a true soldier; and
were he here, would be welcome to share the
contents of my sabre-tache; but as he is not, we
will divide them honestly at the kettle-drum
head.  Here, you see, is a roast fowl, famously
stuffed with sage and garlic, which yesterday
afternoon I carried off from the dinner-table of a
fat canon of Torbiscoso, when just about to carve,
and very much aghast the padre looked when I
seized it unceremoniously.  Here also is a bottle
of pomard,—rare stuff, as you will find.  I took
it out of D'Erlon's holsters not above four hours
ago.  He always keeps a bottle in one, and a
pistol in the other.  A knowing old campaigner,
*ventre St. Gris*!  And now, since you have
reminded me of the sabre-tache, let us to luncheon."

The poniard and the fowl were shared together,
and had any stranger beheld them as they jogged
along, he would never have imagined that they
had been engaged in mortal strife an hour before.

"Ah, this horrible garlic! the taste of it would
madden a Parisian *chef de cuisine*," observed De
Mesmai.  "I drink to the health of senor, the
reverend canon of Torbiscoso, who has provided
for us this especial good luncheon.  Come, my
friend, you do not drink; you are as melancholy as
if you had lost your love, while I am as merry as
if I had just buried my wife.  But why should I
be cast down in spirits?  The old count cannot
do without me, and will soon get me exchanged;
he might as well lose his head as Maurice de
Mesmai.  I save him a world of trouble by
drinking his wine, smoking his cigars, making up his
despatches, in which I take especial care that
my name is always duly commended to the notice
of the Emperor.  I study the localities for
camps, and always make them in the neighbourhood
of convents.  A-propos of convents: I love
better to capture and sack them than any thing
else.  'Tis such delightful hide-and-seek sort of
work, to pull the fair garrison from the nooks and
niches where they hide from us.  I have had a
score of nuns across this very saddle-bow; and,
but for your cursed interruption,—excuse me,
monsieur,—would by this time have had the
abbess of the Jarciejo convent.  An immensely
fine creature, upon my honour, with a neck and
bust beautiful enough to turn the heads of
messieurs their eminences the cardinals.  A glorious
creature, in fact, and as kind a one as may be
met with on a long day's march.  I had marked
her for a prize, and D'Erlon had never dared to
say me nay; otherwise he would have had to
provide himself with another aide."

De Mesmai seemed to have recovered that
buoyancy of temper so natural to Frenchmen,
and he chatted on in this gay and unconnected
manner, and sung snatches of military and tavern
songs until they arrived, when evening was
approaching, at Villa Macia, where it was necessary
that they should halt for the night.  Here they
received information that Sir Rowland Hill, with
the troops returning from Almarez, had passed
through two days before.  In so small a village
there was no alcalde to order them a billet, and
no inn at which they could procure one otherwise;
and while standing in the street, irresolute how to
act, they were surrounded by a crowd of swarthy
villagers, who greeted Ronald with many a hearty
*viva!* but regarded the disarmed Frenchman with
louring looks of hatred and hostility, to which he
replied by others of defiance and contempt.  *El
cura*, the rector or curate of the place, a
reverend-looking old churchman, with a bald head, a
few grey hairs, and a wrinkled visage, approached
them with his shovel-hat in his hand, and invited
them to partake of the shelter afforded by his
humble roof, to which the Gaul and the Briton
were alike welcome.  The horses were accommodated
in an out-house behind the cottage, while
the curate introduced his guests into his best
apartment,—a room floored with tiles, which had
just been cooled by the application of a
water-sprinkler.  Nets of onions, oranges, and
innumerable bunches of grapes hung from the rude rafters
of the roof, waving in the fresh evening breeze
which blew through the open window.  Drawings
of various kinds, particularly landscapes, adorned
the walls of the room, in which, if poverty was
every where apparent, there was an extreme air of
neatness and cleanliness, not often to be met with
in houses of such a class in Spain.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CURATE'S STORY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CURATE'S STORY.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Loose me, sire! and ill betide thee!
   |    Curse upon thee! let me go!
   |  Wert thou other than my father,
   |    Heavens!  I would smite thee low!"
   |                        *The Cid*: a Spanish Romance.

.. vspace:: 2

"*Te Deum laudamus!* we shall have a rest at
last!" exclaimed De Mesmai.  "I thought I had
forgotten my Latin; and yet my old rogue of a
tutor rubbed it hard into me with a tough rod."  He
clattered through the room with his heavy
jackboots and jangling spurs clanking on the floor;
and seating himself in the curate's easy chair,
stretched out his legs, and half closing his eyes,
contemptuously surveyed the place.  He threw
his heavy casque on the table, crushing the leaves
of a large bible, which el cura had been reading.

"*Diable!* my head is ringing like a
kettledrum with the violence of that unlucky stroke.
Monsieur, the basket-hilts of your Scottish
regiments are confoundedly heavy, and their fluted
blades give most uncomfortable thrusts," said De
Mesmai, passing his hand over his round bullet
head and thick and black curly hair, which
clustered around a bold high forehead.  His features
were very handsome, strongly marked, and
classically regular.  Campaigns in Italy had bronzed
and scarred them in no ordinary degree, and
there was a bold recklessness in his eye and a
fierceness in the curl of his moustaches, which
seemed quite to appal the poor old curate,
notwithstanding the presence of Ronald Stuart.  "*Vive
la joie!* let us drink and be merry.  I am a
prisoner of war,—*sacre!* a prisoner!  'Tis something
new; but thanks to D'Erlon, and Madame his
dear little countess, who will never be able to
mount horse without me, I will not be long so.
*Vive la joie, Monsieur le Curé—Senor Cura*—or
what do you style yourself among the rebels of
Joseph Buonaparte,—what are we to have for
supper?"

"*Gaspacho*—only a dish of *gaspacho*; 'tis all
I have to offer you, *gracios senores*."

"*Soupe maigre*, by the Lord!  Bah! *senor
Espagnol*; 'tis food only for hogs or yourselves, not
for a cuirassier of France."

"'Tis all that France and misfortune enable me to
offer.  They have brought me low enough," replied
the curate meekly, while he appeared astounded
by the boisterous behaviour of the dragoon, for
whom Ronald (though secretly angry at his
conduct) endeavoured to apologize, and to re-assure
their kind host.  "But something else may be
added to the *gaspacho*, senores, and you will find
the latter very good; my grand-daughter is the
best preparer of it in the village."

"*Diable!* your grand-daughter? what a merry
monk you have been in your young days.  But
how came you, *senor curé*, to have a family?"

"I was married before I took upon me the
scapulary and girdle,—the badges of my holy order,"
replied the other, while the colour came and went
in his faded cheek, and he regarded the Frenchman
with a fixed look of indignation, which was
replied to by a contemptuous laugh.

"A jolly monk!  *Vive la joie*!  And is your
grand-daughter young and pretty?  I hope so, as
I feel ennui creeping over me in this dull dungeon.
But be not angry, reverend *curé*.  Let us have
but a measure of decent wine to wash down this
same *gaspacho*, and we shall manage pretty well."

"If monsieur knew that I was his countryman,"
said the curate gently, "he might perhaps treat
my grey hairs less insultingly."

"Not a whit, monsieur renegade!" cried the
cuirassier fiercely.  "What! you are some base
emigrant, I suppose.  They are ever the bitterest
enemies to the great Napoleon, to his faithful
soldiers, and to *la belle France*."

"'Tis false, rude soldier!" said the old man,
his faded eye kindling up.  "We are the only
true friends to beautiful France, and the outraged
house of Bourbon."

"Beelzebub strangle the Bourbons!  Get us
our supper, and call a halt to your chattering.
Also, take care how you give me the lie, old
gentleman, or I swear I will dash—"

"Hold!  De Mesmai," said Stuart, interfering
now for the second or third time.  "I, as a British
officer, cannot permit you to persist in insulting a
Spanish citizen thus—"

"A dog of an emigrant!  I have mown them
down by troops,—never yet granted quarter, even
to their most pitiable entreaties.  DEATH! was
the word wherever we have fallen in with them,—in
Holland, Flanders, Spain, Portugal, and Italy.
When I served with the army of the Moselle, we
once formed a thousand emigrant prisoners into
solid squares, and poured in volleys of grape and
musquetry upon them; while the cavalry charged
them by squadrons, sword in hand, to finish by
hoof and blade what the fire of the platoons had
left undone."

The curate clasped his hands and turned up
his eyes, but made no reply.

"You have little cause to boast of that exploit,"
said Ronald; "but, Monsieur de Mesmai, we have
been very good friends on the way hither, yet we
are likely to quarrel, if you abuse our kind host
thus."  At that moment the curate's grand-daughter
entered, and stole close to his side.  The two
officers rose at once, each to offer her a seat, and
she took Stuart's, bowing coldly to De Mesmai,
who, seating himself in what he thought a fine
position, muttered, "A dazzling creature, really.
Upon my honour beats Mariette of the Rue Neuve
des Petits Champs quite, and will make amends
for the loss of the abbess."  He raised his glass
to his eye, and scanned the poor girl with so
intent a look, that her face became suffused with
blushes.  She was indeed a very beautiful
creature.  She was about twenty years of age; her
eyes had a blackness and brightness in them truly
continental.  Her teeth were perfectly regular,
and of the purest white, and the fine proportions
of her figure were displayed to the utmost
advantage by a tight black velvet boddice, with short
sleeves adorned with frills of lace at the elbow,
below which her white arm was bare.  Her luxuriant
black hair was plaited in two gigantic tails
or braids, which hung down to the red flounce
attached to her brown bunchy petticoat, which
was short enough to display a well-turned foot
and ankle.

During supper innumerable were the fine things
and complimentary speeches which the cuirassier
addressed to the Senora Maria, to all of which she
listened with a calm smile, and made such careless
yet appropriate replies as showed that she knew
their true value, and which sometimes confounded
the Frenchman, who thought to win her favour
thus; while he altogether lost the curate's by his
insolent remarks and sneers at their humble
repast—the *gaspacho*, a mess made of toasted bread,
water, a sprinkling of vinegar, spices, salt, and oil,
to which, as a second course, to De Mesmai's
great delight, was added a dish of stewed meat.
After supper the curate rose, and, laying aside
his skull-cap, delivered a long prayer, which De
Mesmai pronounced to be confoundedly tedious,
and for which he showed his contempt by humming
"The Austrian Retreat," and drumming on
the table with his fingers.

A few stoups of the common provincial wine
were now produced, and while discussing these,
the curate engaged Stuart in a long conversation
about Scotland, in the affairs of which he
appeared to be much interested, like a true French
priest of the old school.  His father, he said, had
served in Fitz-James's horse, under the illustrious
prince Charles Stuart, in the campaigns of 1745-6.
He spoke also of the famous Scottish wizard Sir
Michael Scott, of Balwearie, Escotillo, as the
Spaniards name him.  Ronald knew little more about
this ancient Scottish philosopher than what he had
acquired from the "Lay of the Last Minstrel,"
published a few years before, and was not very well
able to answer the interrogations of the curate,
who produced from his little book-case a musty
old copy of Sir Michael's "Commentary on
Aristotle," published at Venice, A.D. 1496, a prize
which would have thrown the Society of Scottish
Antiquarians into ecstacies of delight, could they
have laid their hands upon it.  The curate
informed Ronald that there was a countryman of his, a
Padre Macdonald, who resided in the town of
Alba de Tormes, and who had formerly been a
priest in the Scots College of Douay,—when a
scream from Senora Maria interrupted him.

While Ronald and his host were conversing,
the young lady had been explaining the subject
of some of her drawings to the dragoon, who
bestowed upon them all, indiscriminately, such
vehement praise, that the poor girl was sometimes
quite abashed, and considered him a perfect
connoisseur, though in truth he knew not a line he
saw.  But he seemed quite enchanted with the
young provincial, his companion.  "*Vive l'amour! ma
belle Marie*," he whispered; and throwing his
arm around her, kissed her on the cheek.  Her
eyes filled with fire, she screamed aloud, and
breaking away from him, drew close to the side
of the curate.

"How, monsieur! how can you be so very
rude?" exclaimed the old man, rising in wrath.
"Do you dare to treat her as if she was some
*fille de joie* of the Boulevards or night-promenades
of the iniquitous city of Paris?"

"By the bomb!  I believe the old gentleman
is getting quite into a passion," replied the other,
coolly twirling his moustache.  "*Marie, ma
princesse*, surely you are not so?  The women are
all devilish fond of me.  When I ride in uniform
through the streets of Paris, the sweet *grisettes*
flock to the doors in hundreds.  Marie, or Maria—"

"Insolent!" exclaimed the curate.  "By one
word I could avenge her, and overwhelm you
with confusion and dismay."

"*Peste!*" cried the astonished cuirassier, into
whose head the wine he had taken was rapidly
mounting; "that would indeed be something new.
Overwhelm me with confusion? me, Monsieur
de Mesmai, by the Emperor's grace and my own
deserts captain of No. 4 troop of the 10th
cuirassiers?  *Diable!* that would be something rare,
and rarities are agreeable.  Maria, *ma belle
coquette*, come to me, and say that you are not
angry.  Meanwhile, *Monsieur le Curé*, I should
be glad to hear that terrible word."

He advanced again towards Maria Rosat; but
Ronald, who was now seriously angry, interposed
between him and the terrified girl.

"Shame! shame on you, Captain de Mesmai!"
said he.  "This conduct shows me how outrageously
you soldiers of Buonaparte must behave on
all occasions towards the Spaniards, and that the
excesses recorded of Massena's troops were not
exaggerated in the London newspapers."

"Massena is a fine fellow, and a soldier every
inch," answered the other tartly; "but let us not
come to blows about a smatchet like this,—especially
as you, monsieur, have the advantage of
me.  You are armed and free; I am weaponless
and a prisoner on parole.  But, Monsieur Stuart,
I meant no harm.  In a soldier-like way, I love
to press my moustaches against a soft cheek.
No harm was intended, and *ma belle Marie*
well knows that."

"Ah, Monsieur Maurice—" began the curate.

"Ha!  Maurice?" interrupted the cuirassier
sharply.  "How came you, old gentleman, to
know my name so well?"

"Insolent and libertine soldier!" replied the
curate sternly, "I know not if I should tell you.
I would,—I say again I can confound and dismay
you as you deserve to be."

"A rare blockhead this! rare, as one would
meet in a march of ten leagues.  Do so, in the
devil's name, Sir Curate; but as for Maria—"

"Name her not, *base roué*!  She is—she is—"

"*Tête-dieu!* who is she, most polite monsieur?
A princess in disguise?"

"Your daughter,—your own child!  Maurice de
Mesmai of Quinsay," replied the old priest with
solemn energy; while the dark features of the
cuirassier became purple and then deadly pale, and
his eyes wandered from the faces of Ronald and
Maria to the calm features of the curate, whose
arm he grasped, as, with emphatic sternness and
in a tone something very like consternation, he
answered,—

"My daughter?  Impossible!  What have you
dared to tell me, old man?'

"Truth, truth! as I shall answer to Heaven,
when all men shall stand at the tribunal to be
judged on the great day which is to come.  I tell
you truth,—she is your daughter."

"Her mother?" asked the dragoon, bending
forward his dark eyes, as if he would look
searchingly into the very soul of the curate.
"Her mother—"

"Was Justine Rosat,—the lily of Besançon."

"Poor Justine!" exclaimed the other, covering
his face for a moment with his hand.  "And,
Monsieur le Curé, you are—"

"François Rosat, her father, and grandsire of
this poor orphan."

"What! the gardener at my jovial old château
of Quinsay, on the banks of the Doubs?
Impossible! he was destroyed when I blew up the
hall, with all the base republican mechanics who
filled it."

"Monsieur, I am he," replied the curate.

Maria, with her hands crossed on her bosom,
knelt at the feet of De Mesmai weeping bitterly,
and imploring him, if he was really her father, to
speak to her, to look upon her.  But the
devil-may-care-spirit of the true Parisian roué and
libertine was not at all subdued: he turned from her
to Ronald, who had been listening in silence and
wonder.

"Ah!  Monsieur Stuart," said he with a laugh,
"I have been a sad fellow when a subaltern.
*Tête-dieu!* what would old D'Erlon and his
countess think of this?'

"Noble senor," said the kneeling girl, in a soft
plaintive voice, "ah, if you are indeed my father,
speak to me;" and she pressed his hand between
her own.  "Father, hear me!"

"Father! *ma belle*.  Very good, but something
new when addressed to me, and sounds odd.
How D'Erlon and his plumed and aiguletted
staff would laugh at this!  Maurice de Mesmai
of the 10th cuirassiers,—the most dashing
aide-de-camp in the Imperial service, to be father of
a little Spanish *paisana*.  By the bomb! you do
me infinite honour.  What a very odd adventure!
And so, monsieur, my old rebellious gardener
escaped the explosion at Quinsay?  Excellently
planned affair that was!  Hand me wine: thank
you.  Really, 'pon honour, this respectable title
of father has in it something very overpowering."

He quaffed a long horn of the wine, which had
already begun to cloud his faculties, and he
endeavoured by talking in his usually careless
manner to hide the confusion that he evidently felt.
Maria, who had shrunk from his side, wept
bitterly, and covered her face with her hands.

"*Diable!*" said the cuirassier, turning round.
"'Tis horrible wine this.  Ah! for a single glass
of Hermitage, Château Margot, Vin Ordinaire,
Volnay, or glorious Champagne, such as old
Marcel retails at the Eagle on the Quai d'Orsai,
opposite to the Pont Royal, in our good and
glorious Paris.  But what is the girl weeping about?
You should rather laugh, having just found your
father, and found him as handsome a fellow as
ever stood in jack-boots.  All the girls are in
love with me,—'pon honour they are.  Some of
the fairest creatures at the court of the Empress
are dying for me; and I mean to act the part of
a hard-hearted dragoon, and let them die if they
will.  I swear to you, Maria, by a thousand
caissons of devils, that as you appear just now,
with your lashes cast down and your face covered
with tears and blushes, like the western sky in a
shower, you are pretty enough to turn the brain
of monsieur the Pope, to whom I drink that he
may have a long and joyful life.  But I must
retire.  My head is buzzing anew with that
sword-stroke.  *Diable!* my gay helmet, what a dinge
you have got.  But, messieurs, we will talk over
these matters in the morning, when I suppose we
shall leap to saddle without blast of trumpet.
Adieu! mademoiselle, my daughter; pleasant
dreams to you.  *Vive la joie—tête-dieu!*"  He
took up his heavy military cloak and staggered
out of the room, withdrawing to the humble attic
set apart for himself and Ronald.  A long pause
ensued.

"There, he has gone with the same swagger
as of old,—the polished gentleman,—the
accomplished and gallant soldier, combined with the
blustering tavern brawler and the libertinism of
the perfect *roué*.  He is all unchanged, although
twenty years have passed into eternity since I
beheld him last," said the curate in a mournful
accent; "and yet, when I remember what he
was, I cannot,—no, I cannot implore a curse
upon him.  I carried him in my arms when he
was an infant, and he is the father of this poor
weeping girl.  Alas! from the day that as a stripling
soldier he first buckled on a sword-belt, time
has wrought no change upon him.  He is the
same daring and gallant, but reckless and
hollow-hearted man as ever."

"Senor Cura, to me this has been a most
incomprehensible scene," said Stuart; "so much so,
that I trust you will not consider me impertinent
or inquisitive in wishing for an explanation."

"Quite the reverse,—an explanation is, indeed,
necessary.  But retire, Maria, my poor cast-away;
I will speak to you of this afterwards.  Be seated,
monsieur, and draw the wine-jug towards you."

He led Maria from the room, and on returning,
seated himself at the table and commenced in
the following words:—

"Monsieur Officier, I am, as you already know,
a Frenchman, a native of the fertile district of
Besançon.  I succeeded my father in the humble
occupation of gardener to the family of this
Monsieur Maurice de Mesmai, at the castle of
Quinsay, a noble château, built on the banks of the
Doubs, which flows through Besançon.  The
château is of venerable antiquity, and it is said to
have been granted to an ancestor of De Mesmai's
by Charles Martel.  Ah, monsieur! when I had
only my flower-beds and vineries to attend to,
no man was happier than I,—François Rosat.
With my flowers, my wife and daughter were my
sole delights; and when I returned in the evening,
after working during the hot dusty days in the
garden of the château, what pleasure was mine
to be met by my smiling Suzette, with the little
laughing Justine in arms, stretching out her hands
and crowing with delight at the *bouquet* of violets
and roses I always brought her from my choicest
beds.  And merrily we used to spend our evenings,
for Suzette sung while I played second on
the flute, and we taught little Justine to dance as
soon as she could walk.  My life was all humble
happiness then, monsieur; but it was not destined
to continue long so.  Justine was just sixteen
when my wife died, and our old lord dying soon
after, this sad *roué*, Monsieur Maurice came to
take possession of the château, and terrify the
poor peasantry by the wickedness he had learned
in Paris and the garrison towns where he had
been stationed: he belonged to the dragoons of
Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul.  This dissipated
Maurice, arrayed in all the extreme of Parisian
dandyism, the first Sunday we saw him in church
formed a strong contrast to our venerable old lord
his father, who used to occupy the same pew so
devoutly, dressed in his old-fashioned way of
Louis the Fifteenth's days,—his deep waistcoat,
silk coat, with its collar covered with powder, and
his ruffles and frills starched as stiff as pasteboard;
and we soon discovered that if there was a
difference in their appearance, there was an equal
difference in their hearts and sentiments.

"My little Justine had now become a woman,
and a very beautiful one,—more especially so for
the daughter of a peasant.  She was the belle of
the rural district, and the people named her the
lily of Besançon.  Ah, monsieur! although the
child of a low-born man, a vassal, she was
surprisingly beautiful; too much so to be happy, as
my friend Pierre Raoul told me more than once.
Her figure was not the less handsome or graceful
because, instead of satin or brocade, she wore our
homely brown stuffs; and her long black curls,
flowing in freedom, seemed a thousand times more
beautiful than the locks of high-born ladies,
powdered and pasted into puffs and bows by the
hands of a fashionable barber.

"Monsieur, I perceive that you almost comprehend
my story, ere it is told.  My daughter was
charming, and our lord was a libertine.  In that
sentence are the causes of all my woe.  I was
kept in a constant state of anxiety lest the
debauchee, our young lord, or some accomplished
rascal of his acquaintance, might rob me of my
treasure, for such she was to me; and what I had
dreaded came to pass at last.  I had observed
that the manners of Justine were changed.  She
shunned the villagers, and often went out alone;
she seldom laughed, and never sang as she used
to do; but was ever moody and melancholy, and
often I found her weeping in solitary places.

"Never shall I forget the evening when the
dreadful truth broke upon me, with all its maddening
anguish; when I was told that my daughter was
lost,—that the bloom of the lily was blighted!  I
was no longer François Rosat,—no longer the
same man apparently; a cloud of horror seemed
to have enveloped me, for although but a poor
peasant of Besançon, I held my honour as dear
to me as Louis XVI. could have held his.  One
evening I returned to my cottage, bearing with me
a basket of choice flowers for the decoration of
Justine, who had been elected queen of a fête
which was to be given by the villagers and
tenantry of Quinsay on the morrow.  I returned to
my home, monsieur,—a house which was to be no
longer a home for me.  Justine was not awaiting
me, as usual, under the porch, where I had trained
up the honey-suckle and woodbine,—nor was she
in our sitting-room; but she could not be far off,
I imagined, as her guitar and work-basket lay on
the table.  I know not how it was, but I noted
these little matters anxiously, and I felt my heart
beat quicker, as if in dread of coming evil.

"'Justine!' said I, laying down my basket,
'come hither.  You never saw such flowers as
these for freshness and beauty, and I have been
employed the whole day in culling them for you.
Here are anemonies, crimson and lilac, and blue
and white pinks, carnations, gillyflower, auriculas
with eyes of scarlet edged with green, violets as
large as lilies, and tulips and roses such as were
never before seen in Besançon.  Justine! come
here, girl.  Why, where are you?'  But no Justine
answered my call.  Her little room, the room in
which her mother died, was deserted, and my heart
swelled in my breast with an inward presentiment
of evil, as I went forth to seek her by the river side.
Here I met the steward of Quinsay, Pierre Raoul,
a surly fellow, whose addresses she had rejected.
He informed me, with what I thought a grin of
triumph and malice, that my daughter, with
Monsieur Maurice, had just swept through Besançon
in a travelling-carriage, and were off for Paris as
fast as four horses could take them.  As he spoke
the earth swam around me, and I saw his lips
moving, although I heard not his conclusion;
there was a hissing sensation in my ears,—the
cords of my heart felt as if riven asunder, and I
sunk on the turf at the feet of Pierre.

"When I returned to consciousness, he was
bathing my brow and hands in the cool water of
the river; but he soon left me, and oh! monsieur,
what a sense of loneliness and desolation came
upon me.  That my daughter should desert me thus
heartlessly,—that the little creature I had
cherished in my bosom should turn upon me and
sting me thus!  I raved like a madman, and tore
the hair from my head and the grass from the
earth in handfuls.  When this fit passed away, all
was silence and stillness around me: the moon
was shining brightly in the sky, and silvered the
boughs of the trees my own hands had trained,
and the petals and buds of the flowers that it
had been my delight to attend; but they were
unheeded now, and I turned to where appeared, in
the strong light and shadow, the old château de
Quinsay, with its battlemented towers and
elevated turrets.  I prayed deeply for my erring
Justine, and implored Heaven and the spirit of
her mother to sustain me under so heavy a
dispensation.  I would rather have seen the child of
Suzette laid dead by her side, than the dishonoured
mistress of Maurice de Mesmai.  But my prayers
were impious, as I mingled them with the bitterest
maledictions upon her accomplished seducer.  At
the château the servants, some with pity, some
with the malice felt by little minds, corroborated
the blasting information given me by Pierre
Raoul, and that very night I set out for Paris in
pursuit of my lost sheep.  I set out on foot on my
sorrowful pilgrimage, almost heart-broken, and
without a sous to defray my expenses by the way.
How I reached the capital—a distance of two
hundred and thirty-five miles from Besançon—I know
not.  But He who fed the children of Israel in the
desert surely assisted me by the way.  How great
was my misery, when begging as a miserable
mendicant, exposed to the insults of the *gens d'armes*,
I wandered about that wide wilderness of Paris,
with the vague and eager hope of recovering
Justine!  Once—yes, once—I got a sight of her;
only a single glance, but one I shall never forget.
In a dashing carriage, the panels of which flashed
in the sun with gilding and armorial bearings,
she was seated by the side of De Mesmai, tricked
out in all the gaudy and wanton finery that wealth
and pride could bestow upon her.  But she looked
paler, less happy than she was wont to be, and
the roses had faded from her cheek, and the lustre
from her once sunny eye.  They swept past me
on the Boulevards, where I was seeking alms as
was my wont, and Justine, *mon Dieu!* my own
fallen but kind-hearted daughter, threw a
demi-franc into my tattered hat, without looking upon
my face.  I attempted to cry out; but what I
would have said expired on my lips.  My tongue
clove to the roof of my mouth, and when I
recovered they were gone!  I never beheld them
again.

"I was starving at that moment, monsieur; food
had not passed my lips for three days, and I
looked wistfully, till my eyes became blinded
with tears, upon the little coin I had received
from Justine.  A sudden thought struck me.  I
spat upon it, and tossed it from me as a coin of
hell, as the wages of her infamy.  Twelve
months,—long and weary months of wretchedness and
sorrow, I wandered about the streets of Paris, a
woe-begone mendicant, until all hope of seeing
her again was extinguished, and I returned to
Besançon more heart-broken, if possible, than
when I had left it.  My cottage had fallen into
ruin; but honest Pierre Raoul restored me again
to the occupation of gardener, and repaired my
old residence for me.  Our lord had been absent,
no one knew where, ever since he had carried off
Justine, and I began to have some faint hope that
he might have married her.

"These thoughts stole at length like sunshine
into my desolate heart; and I thought so much of
the chances and probabilities, that at last it
appeared to me to be beyond a doubt that Justine
was the wife of De Mesmai.  I plucked up fresh
courage, and attended from dawn till sunset my
loaded orchards and blooming flower-beds as of
old.  The garden was again my delight and glory,
and not even does the great Napoleon survey his
troops with more delight, than I did my beds of
tulips and anemonies: I had brought to perfection
the art of cultivation, and where can it be
practised with more success than under the climate of
my own beautiful France?  In the garden of the
château the aloe of Africa, the pine of Scotland,
the oak of England, the cypress of Candia, the
laurels of Greece and Portugal, the rose-tree of
Persia, the palms of India, the figs of
Egypt—all blooming together, and at once.

"In my application to my old business, the
manifold miseries I had endured in Paris were
forgotten, or at least subdued in my remembrance.
I pictured bright images of monsieur's returning,
with my beautiful Justine to be mistress of his
château.  But these were doomed soon to end.
One evening I sat on the turf-seat at my door,
employed as usual building castles in the air,
while I made up and dried packages of seed which
were never to be sown by me.  It was a beautiful
summer evening, and all the fertile landscape
seemed bright and joyous in the light of the
setting sun.  Clear as a mirror the river
murmured at my feet, sweeping past the old château
on its opposite bank, where, above trees a hundred
years old, the slated roofs of its turrets and gilded
vanes were shining in the sun.  Afar off, between
openings in the trees of the lawn, could be seen
the fortifications of the citadel and city of
Besançon, with its round towers and the tall spires
of its colleges and churches reared against the
cloudless sky.  I desisted from my employment
and took off my hat, for the sound of the evening
service came floating on the wind towards me
from the rich abbey of the order of Citeaux.  The
very air was filled with perfume, for the breeze
swept over the wide orchards and gardens of the
abbey and château.

"We French are enthusiastic creatures, monsieur;
and I was filled with delight and ecstacy at
the beauty of the evening and the scenery of my
native place, where the deep blue river wound
among fertile hills, vineyards, and green woods
between happy little hamlets clustering round
ivy clad churches and the stately châteaux of the
old nobility of France,—a nobility, monsieur, in
those days not less proud and haughty than those
of your own northern country.

"'Yes,' said I aloud, giving utterance to my
thoughts, 'the hand of fate has been in all this.
Justine will certainly be the lady of Quinsay,
and poor old François Rosat will get a corner in
some part of that huge old château to rest in.
Let me see, now: the octagon turret which
overlooks the orchard will suit me exactly.  It has
a window to the south, which overlooks the
garden.  Excellent!  I can watch the buds and
blossoms in spring,—I will look at them the
moment I leap from bed; but, alas!  I must no
do more.  I shall then be a gentleman, and
Monsieur François Rosat, father-in-law of the lord
of Quinsay, must not be up with the lark, like
Maitre François the gardener,—that would never
do.  This red night-cap I will exchange for a hat
of the best beaver, tied up with a silver loop, a la
Louis XVI.  My coat—'

"The train of my vain but happy thoughts was
cruelly cut short by the apparition of a woman
standing before me.  Her appearance declared
her to be sunk to the lowest ebb of misery and
degraded destitution.  She was tanned by
exposure to the weather; bare-headed,
bare-footed,—almost without covering, and bore in her
arms a poor child, almost as wan and meagre as
herself.  *Ah, mon Dieu!* how keenly at this
distant time can my memory recall the agony of that
terrible recognition.  Oh, what a moment was
that!  Disguised as she was, I recognised her;
but a mist overspread my vision, and I felt her
fall into my open arms, although I could not for
some minutes discern her.

"'My father! oh, my father!' said she.  But,
alas! her voice was not so sweet as of old.

"'Justine, I forgive you,' was my answer.
'Come again to my bosom: the past shall be
forgotten.'

"She sunk down between my knees upon the
earth, and lay motionless and still.  Monsieur, I
will not protract this intrusive story of my griefs.
She was dead! she had expired at that moment—the
kindness of my forgiveness had killed her!
Unrequited love, unkindness, sorrow, shame, and
misery had wrought their worst upon her,—she
was destroyed!  De Mesmai had taken her to
Italy, and there, ruthlessly abandoning her for
some new victim, she was left to find her way as
she best could to Besançon, to place in my charge
the infant to which she had given birth on the
way.  The child of De Mesmai is the Maria to
whom he behaved so insolently to-night.  Two
days afterwards the poor polluted lily of
Besançon was laid in her mother's grave; and as I
strewed the fresh flowers on the green turf which
covered her, I knelt down upon it and solemnly
swore a vow,—a vow at once terrible and
impious,—to seek revenge upon her destroyer!

"I joined one of those secret bands or societies
then so numerous in France, composed of men
who were desperate by their characters and
fortunes, and the sworn enemies of kings and of
nobility.  I longed for desperate vengeance, and
the hour for glutting it seemed at hand.  A bloody
standard was soon to wave over France, and
destiny had pointed out that, like your own Stuarts,
the Bourbons were a doomed race.  The spirit of
revolution and destruction was soon to sweep over
my country, blighting and blasting it like the
simoom of the African desert; and, eager as I
was for vengeance on De Mesmai, I hailed the
approaching tumult with joy, and entered into the
wildest schemes of the most savage republicans
and heaven-daring atheists.  So eagerly did I
attend the taverns of Besançon to hear the news
from Paris, that the little innocent confided by
Justine to my charge was quite neglected.  My
garden became a wilderness; I became sullen and
morose, and forgot even to hang fresh flowers,
as had been my custom daily, on the grave of
Justine.

"About six months after her return, the
once-dreary château was filled with sudden life and
bustle.  Monsieur Maurice had returned, bringing
with him a number of wild and reckless fellows
like himself.  These were all officers of his
own regiment, except one very sad dog, worse
even than the rest, Monsieur Louis Chateaufleur,
captain of the *Gens d'armes Ecossois*, or first troop
of the French gendarmerie.  Nothing was heard
of now but feasting, drinking, and desperate
gambling within the château; hunting, hawking,
shooting, frolics, and outrages of every sort
committed out of it.  The guests of De Mesmai were
some of the wildest *roués* about Paris—and the
mess of the Duc de Choiseul's regiment had
produced many of them,—and a great commotion
their appearance made in Besançon and the rural
district of Quinsay.  All the lamps in the former
were sometimes broken in a single night, and the
whole city involved in darkness; while these
madcaps and their servants possessed themselves of
the steeples, where they rang the alarum bells
backwards, and rushed through the streets, crying
'Fire! murder! robbery and invasion!' until the
peaceable citizens were scared out of their seven
senses.

"Nor were their brawls and outrages confined
to the night alone.  The wig of Monsieur le Maire
was dragged off and flung in his face, when he
was passing through the Rue de l'Université.
Swords were drawn in the lobbies of the theatre
every night, and the gens d'armes were always
beaten and insulted.  Monsieur Chateaufleur, of
the *gens d'armes Ecossois*, as a crowning outrage,
carried off by force to the château a young
milliner or grisette of the Rue de Paradis; and the
citizens of Besançon were enraged beyond what I
can describe at the insolencies of these young
aristocrats, who were at once struck with terror
and dismay when news arrived of the revolution
which had broken out in Paris, and of the bloody
tumults which had ensued there.  De Mesmai
armed his servants, and the inhabitants of the
château kept close within its walls.

"The same wild spirit of uproar and anarchy
that prevailed at Paris seemed also to pervade
the provinces, which appeared suddenly in a state
of insurrection, the people of France seeming to
consider their allegiance to Louis XVI. at an end.
The spirit of dissatisfaction had spread to the
troops.  Those in garrison at Besançon laid down
their arms, and abandoned the citadel to the
bourgeois; who, on becoming thus suddenly
armed, assumed the *cockade de la liberté*, and
wearing this republican badge, committed the
most frightful outrages.  No dwelling, sacred or
profane, escaped sack and pillage; no age, or
rank, or sex did we spare, executing indiscriminately,
by the musquet and sabre, all who opposed
us.  Burning for vengeance against the family of
De Mesmai, I had associated myself with and
become a leader among the republicans.  We
ruined the city of Besançon, giving its public
buildings, its schools, and university to the flames.
Alas, monsieur! deeply at this hour do I repent
me of the part I bore in these desperate outrages.
We compelled the proud nobles to acknowledge
that they had lost their privileges, and we burned
to the ground their office of records in the city.
We sacked and utterly levelled the rich abbey of
the Citeaux,—that place made so famous by the
animadversions of Voltaire.  The young and
beautiful Princess de Baufremont, and the Baroness
d'Andelion, who dwelt there, owed their escape
from our fury to the interposition of Heaven and
the chivalric gallantry of Louis Chateaufleur, who
with two of the *Gens d'armes Ecossois* cut his way
through us, sword in hand, and carried the noble
demoiselles off on horseback.  Flushed with
success, excitement, ferocity, and the wines found in
the vaults of the rich old abbey, we became
absolutely frantic, and some, imbruing their hands in
each other's blood, slew their comrades; while
others daubed themselves with gore or black
paint, to make themselves more hideous.  Eager
for more plunder and devastation, we cried out to,
or rather commanded, our leader, the ungrateful
Pierre Raoul, to lead us against the stately old
château of Quinsay, that its aristocratic guests
might be given up to our vengeance.  With the
dawn De Mesmai was roused from his bed by the
beating of drums, the braying of horns, discharge
of fire-arms, the yells, the howls, the shrieks of
the frenzied rabble, mingled with shouts of '*Vive
la nation!  Vive la liberte*!  Perish the name of
God and the king!  Freedom to France!  Long
live Monsieur Belzebub!' and a hundred other
mad and impious cries.  The gay lord of Quinsay,
and his comrades of Choiseul's horse, beheld,
to their no small terror, the gardens, the orchards
and parks in possession of a desperate mob,
armed with bayonets, musquets, pikes, scythes,
and every weapon they could lay their hands
on—iron rails and fences where nothing else could be
procured.  All were full of wine and frenzy: many
were only half dressed, blackened with smoke
and dust, and besmeared with blood, presenting a
frightful troop of hideous faces, distorted by the
worst and wildest of human passions.

"You may imagine the surprise of Pierre Raoul
and his worthies, when, at the gate of the château,
we were met by Monsieur Maurice and his gay
companions, bowing and smiling, gracefully
waving their hats, while they greeted us with cries of
'Long live the nation!  Long live the sovereign
people!  *Vive le diable!*'  We were astonished, and
greeted them with the most tremendous yells,
while a hundred black and dirty hands wrung
theirs in burlesque friendship.  The whole band
were formally invited to a repast, served up in
the hall of the château, from which De Mesmai
had hurriedly torn down all the banners and
armorial bearings of his house, substituting in their
place an immense tri-coloured cockade, that was
fastened to the back of the chair of state, in which
the insolent Pierre Raoul installed his ungainly
figure.  Many now strode about, daring and
unrestrained intruders into the very hall where they
had often stood as humble dependants, trembling
and abashed in the presence of De Mesmai, who
had been, in the neighbourhood of Besançon, a
much greater man than Louis XVI. was at Paris
or Versailles.  At the hastily prepared feast with
which he entertained us, we ate and drank of
every thing, gorging ourselves like savages as we
were.  The richest and most expensive wines in
the cellars of the château were flowing at our
orders like water.  Pipes and puncheons were
brought up by dozens and madly staved, until
the floor swam with crimson, purple, and yellow
liquor, to the imminent danger of those who lay
upon it in a state of exhaustion or intoxication.
'Wine! wine!' was the cry, and the contents of
well-sealed flasks of Lachrymae Christi and
Côtéroti were poured down our plebeian throats like
the commonest beverage.  We ordered all sorts
of things, beating and insulting the unoffending
servants of the château until they fled from us;
and the noise and uproar in the hall, crowded as
it was to suffocation with armed and intoxicated
madmen, became stunning and appalling.

"A hundred times I had resolved, by a single
thrust of my pike, to sacrifice De Mesmai to the
shade of Justine; but the hourly massacres I saw
committed by my barbarous comrades had
glutted my longings for vengeance, and when I
remembered that De Mesmai was the father of
Justine's little girl, my fierce resolution relented.
As often as I raised my hand to stab him to the
heart, my soul died within me,—and he escaped.
Very great however was our surprise at the
condescension of this once proud noble, and the gay
chevaliers his companions; and while doing the
honours of the table, we subjected them to a
thousand mortifications and gross insults.  We
tore the lace and facings from their uniform;
transferred their epaulets from their shoulders to
those of Pierre Raoul and our leaders; tossed
wine in their faces, and fully tried their patience
to the utmost limits of mortal endurance; but
dire and unheard-of was the vengeance they were
meditating!

"While we were thus rioting in the ancient
hall, chosen servants of De Mesmai were placing
barrels of gunpowder in the vaults immediately
beneath it.  When all was prepared, our host
withdrew, and one by one his guests followed
him, and left the château unperceived.

"The train was fired,[\*] and the mine sprung.
Never shall I forget the expression I read in the
faces of the republicans at that moment,—the last
of their existence!

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] For an account of this affair, see any French paper or
Journal for July 1789.

.. vspace:: 2

"We heard beneath our feet an appalling roar—a
noise as if the globe was splitting asunder.  All
looked aghast, and I cried aloud on that God to
help me, whose existence I had denied a moment
before; but the unfortunate wretches around me
had scarcely time either for prayer or blasphemy.
The pavement heaved beneath their feet; the
massive walls trembled and sunk inwards; the
stone-arched roof descended thundering on their
devoted heads,—all was darkness, chaos, and
indescribable horror!  Of a thousand men who
crowded the place, not one escaped save myself:
all were buried in the ruins,—the masonry of a
whole wing of the château covered them.  Yes,
monsieur, I alone escaped that terrible explosion.
By Heaven's grace, rather than my own deserts,
I happened at the instant to be standing in the
recess of an oriel window and was blown into the
garden, where, when my senses returned, I found
myself lying safe and whole on my favourite
tulip-bed.

"De Mesmai and his friends had fled to some
place at a distance, where they took shipping for
Britain.  Messieurs the bourgeois were exasperated
to madness at the explosion of Quinsay.
They rose *en masse* in arms, and the noble old
château was razed almost to the foundation, and
all the castles in the neighbourhood of Besançon
shared the same fate.  The populace were even
under less restraint than before, and committed
excesses, inconceivable to those who beheld them
not, under the banner and sacred name of *liberty*.
The National Assembly offered a reward for De
Mesmai's head; but he was safe in London, and
the British government refused to give him up.
Afterwards, when Louis was no more, and the
silver lilies of old France were trodden as it were
to the earth, De Mesmai made his peace with his
countrymen by some means, and fought as a
private soldier in the battles of the Republic.  He
distinguished himself, and has now, in this
noon-day of French heroism, risen to the rank of a
captain of cavalry under the Corsican usurper,—this
self-made emperor, who usurps the crown and
sceptre of a better race,—a race now exiled, and
finding a refuge in the capital of Scotland.  Napoleon
has restored to De Mesmai his estate of Quinsay,
and as he is a favourite both with the court
and army, he may yet become a marshal of
the Empire.

"Of myself, I have little more to say,
monsieur.  Taking with me my grand-daughter, the
little Maria, I abandoned Besançon, the scene of
such tumult and disorder, and wandered I know
not why, or how, across the Pyrenees into Spain,
where, as I had received a good education in my
youth, I was admitted as a brother into the order
of *los Capuchinos*, at Truxillo, and soon afterwards
received the situation of curate here,—at
this peaceful little hamlet, Villa Macia, where,
for fifteen years past, I have dwelt in retirement
and happiness.  Although the memory of my wife
and unfortunate daughter is not effaced, time
has, in a great measure, softened the pangs I
feel when thoughts of them occur to my mind.

"I now consider myself a happy and contented
old man.  My parishioners, my books, and the
fair young girl my grand-child, have been the
companions of my increasing years.  But I am
soon to be deprived of my merry and volatile
Maria.  A very noble cavalier of Truxillo, Don
Gonzago de Conquesta, has not disdained to sue
for and obtain the promise of her hand.  They
will soon be wedded, and I am to perform the
happy ceremony.

"This is all my tale, monsieur, in elucidation
of the singular scene you saw acted here this
evening.  I trust I have not wearied you in this
sketch of my life: although a humble one, it has
been full of sorrows.  I never thought again to
have recalled them so fully to my mind; but the
unexpected appearance of their author under my
roof, has rolled back the tide of years to the hour
in which we first met,—I knew the fine and noble
features of his race the moment he laid aside his
helmet.  But I will not detain you longer from
rest, monsieur.  Take another cup of this simple
wine, and permit me to bid you, as we say here
in Spain, *Buenos noches*,—Good night."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN ARREST`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN ARREST.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Guerre et pitié ne s'accordent pas ensemble."
   |                              *French Military Proverb.*

.. vspace:: 2

The next morning by day-break Ronald and
his prisoner quitted Villa Macia.

The young Scot was disgusted with the levity
and carelessness with which, at their departure,
De Mesmai treated the tears and sorrow of his
daughter, and the pious admonitions of the
reverend *cura*.

"Body o' the Pope!" said he, as they cantered
under the shade of the cork trees which lined
the road, "what a rare blockhead has become
monsieur my old gardener, now curate of Villa
Macia.  How D'Erlon and his aiguletted staff
would laugh, if they knew I had become quite
a family man!  I am always apprehensive that
some of my wild pranks will come unluckily to
light, as this affair of poor Justine Rosat's has
done; but I am too old a soldier to be put to
the blush.  Blush!  I have no blood to spare,—the
bleeding of twenty years' campaigning has
cured me of that.  How the poor girl wept!
What the deuce! surely she did not expect me
to take her with me?  Captain Maurice de Mesmai,
of Monsieur le Compte d'Erlon's staff, with
a family!  *Corboeuf!* the idea is most excellent!
'Tis well Victor d'Estouville and our first major,
Louis Chateaufleur, know nothing of this;
otherwise they would quiz me out of the service.
However, I commend my daughter to the long
visaged and noble cavalier Don—Don,—what
the devil is his name?—Gonzago de Conquesta;
and vow, if he makes not a good husband,
affectionate father, and displays not all the good
qualities you will find graven on every great
man's tomb-stone, I will crop his ears,—I will,
by the name of the bomb!  Ho, ho! now when
I remember it, what a long roll-call Monsieur
le Curé made of my early scrapes, last night.
I listened to him through a chink in the partition.
*Tête-dieu!* how impertinent the old dog was.  I
own to you I was on the point of cutting short
his exceedingly rude harangue a dozen times."

De Mesmai kept talking thus for an hour at
a time, without heeding the interruptions of
Ronald, who did not hesitate to acquaint him
freely with the opinion he entertained of his
feelings and sentiments, at which the other only
laughed in his usual loud and boisterous manner.

At San Pedro they were received into the
house of the alcalde, who showed them every
attention and civility.  But there an unlucky
brawl ensued.  De Mesmai, probably to spend
the time, paid such close attention to the *patrona*,
a plump, rosy, and good-natured-like matron, that
the worthy alcalde, her lord and master, started
up from the supper-table in a sudden fit of
jealousy and rage, and would have stabbed the
cuirassier with a poniard, which he suddenly
unsheathed from his boot,—a place of concealment
often used for such a weapon in Spain.  Ronald's
timely interference quelled this dangerous brawl,
and mollified the fierce merchant,—for the alcalde
was a retailer of Cordovan leather; and Stuart
was very glad when he had his troublesome
companion once more out on the highway, where his
pride and petulance had less opportunities of
rousing the ire of the fiery Spaniards.

Near Medellin, a town twenty miles east of
Merida, their horses suddenly became dead lame;
and Ronald, who was chafed to fury at the delay
caused by this accident, lost much more time, as
he could not abandon the major's horse, and it
could proceed but slowly.  Next day, the ninth
of his absence, he beheld before him the massive
amphitheatre, the gothic spires and well-known
bridge of the old Roman city, which was associated
with so many sad and tender reminiscences
of Catalina, a thousand recollections of whom
came crowding into his mind, plunging him into
melancholy, from which De Mesmai vainly
endeavoured to rouse him by an animated description
of the follies and the gaiety of Paris, and
biographical sketches of the reigning beauties,
with all of whom he was, by his own account,
a decided favourite.

It was dark when they reached the bridge, on
the centre of which, where the blown-up arch was
crossed by wooden planks, they saw two Highland
sentinels pacing at their post, the flutter of their
plaids and waving folds of their kilts giving to
them the appearance of a couple of those ancient
Romans who had often kept watch and ward
upon the same spot.  On hearing the sound of
the approaching hoofs they came to their front,
and one challenged, in the familiar voice of Evan
Iverach, "Stand!  Who goes there?'

"*Ronald an deigh nam fiann*," (the last of
his race,) answered Stuart in Gaelic, almost
laughing.

The two astonished Highlanders set up a loud
skraigh, which startled the very leaves of the
olives on the other side of the Guadiana, and
ringing under the arches of the bridge, died away
in the winding rocks of the river.

"Who is the officer on guard here?" asked
Ronald, after Evan's extravagant joy at his
sudden appearance had somewhat subsided.

"Mr. Macdonald, sir."

"Which?  We have six or seven."

"Lieutenant Ronald Macdonuil, sir.  The
guard-house is close by the first barricade ye'll
find cast across the croon o' the causeway, just
inside the yetts o' the toon."

Promising to satisfy to-morrow the eager and
affectionate inquiries of Evan, who hung on at
his plaid very unceremoniously, Stuart, with his
prisoner, crossed the bridge; and entering the
city gate, found Macdonuil's guard under arms,
having been startled by the holloa of the two
sentinels.

"Where are the colonel's quarters?" asked
Ronald of the officer on duty, when
congratulations had ceased.

"Next door to the town-house; you will easily
know it,—a large building with a portico.  But I
would advise you to defer reporting your arrival
until to-morrow."

"Why so, Macdonuil?  The sooner, so much
the better, surely."

"But Cameron is sure, from the direction in
which Campbell said you left Almarez, that you
were not in the hands of the enemy; and he is
strangely enraged at your singular absence."

"Singular?  How! have I not explained to you—"

"Oh, perfectly: I am quite satisfied.  But, my
dear Stuart, Cameron is such a fiery sort of
fellow, that he will not be so easily pleased,
notwithstanding your having captured this French
officer.  You must prepare yourself for something
disagreeable, as he is determined to put you
under arrest; and it will not put him in a better
humour to report your return just now, almost at
midnight."

"You are right, Macdonuil.  But what shall
I do for a billet?  Twelve o'clock,—there is the
bell-clock of the corporation-house striking."

"We have established a temporary mess-room,
and you had better go to it; our fellows are all
there still, I have little doubt,—they are never in
a hurry to break up.  You know the Calle de
Guadiana—"

"Lying between the river and the Plaza?"

"Yes.  Pass down there, wheel to your left,
and you will come to the chapter-house of the
San Juan convent, where our temporary
mess-house is established."

"But I shall probably find Fassifern there:
and if any thing disagreeable—"

"There is no danger.  I saw him at sun-set
return to his billet in the Calle de Santa Clara,
accompanied by his faithful esquire and orderly,
Dugald Mhor; so he is without doubt housed
for the night."

Ronald followed Macdonuil's directions,
accompanied by De Mesmai, who had been so
often in Merida that he knew the streets as well
as an inhabitant could have known them.  On
reaching the foot of the street of the Guadiana,
the lights shining through the tall traceried
windows of the chapter-house, together with the
unseemly sounds of midnight roistering and
merriment which issued from it, informed them that
this was the place they sought.

"Here we dismount," said Stuart; and alighting,
they tied their bridles to the necks of two stone
saints, whose weather-beaten heads had for six
hundred years sustained the weight of a canopy
over the gothic doorway.  Before entering, Ronald
gave a glance through a window, between the
thick stone mullions of which he took a survey of
the company.  The gloomy old chapter-house was
but indifferently lighted by a dozen yellow old
commissariat candles stuck on the heads and
hands of corbelled saints and angels, shedding a
dull and uncertain light on the table, which was
composed of a few rough boards nailed together.
Around this rude contrivance sat about thirty
officers in the Highland uniform, occupying the
high-backed oaken chairs which erst were used
by the holy fathers of San Juan, when assembled
in solemn conclave.  Ronald saw that nearly all
his brother-officers were present, as few were on
guard, and there was not one married man among
them.

The general equipage of the table was different
from that of a home-service mess, and contrasted
strongly with the rich uniforms of the carousers,
who were drinking Spanish wine from horns,
tin canteens, glasses, and all sorts of vessels fit
for the purpose that could be procured.

"*Corboeuf!*" exclaimed De Mesmai, "what a
jovial song,—more merry than musical, though.
I have a dozen minds to strike up the Marseillois
hymn."

"Stay,—hearken a moment."

They were singing a well-known Scottish song,[\*]
and one which had become so popular at the
mess, that it always followed the standing toast
of "Here's to the Highlandmen, shoulder to
shoulder!" and was chorused in a most methodical
manner.  By the noisy accompaniments of glasses
clanked upon the table, and heels upon the floor,
it was evident the company were pretty mellow.
Some of the windows being open for the admittance
of cool air, the bold chorus, chanted by
thirty voices, rolled out into the still night air,
and echoed among the deserted streets:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] "Donald Macdonald:" a song composed in 1803 by the
Ettrick Shepherd, to the tune of "Wooed, and married, and a'."

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Sword, and buckler, and a',
   |    Buckler, and sword, and a';
   |  For George we'll encounter the devil,
   |    Wi' sword, and buckler, and a'."
   |

Now Campbell's loud sonorous voice, chanting
alone, awoke the echoes of the place:

   |  "The Gordon is gude in a hurry;
   |    And Campbell is steel to the bane;
   |  And Grant, and Mackenzie, and Murray,
   |    And Cameron, will hurkle to nane.
   |
   |  The Stuart is sturdy and wannel,
   |    And sae is Macleod and Mackay;
   |  And I, their gude brither, Macdonald,
   |    Sall never be last in the fray."

"Chorus again, gentlemen,"—(and the thirty
struck in):

   |  "Brogues, and brochan, and a',
   |    Brochan, and brogues, and a';
   |  And up wi' the bonnie blue bonnet,
   |    The kilt, the feather, and a'."
   |

As the chorus died away in the aisles and cloisters
of the adjacent church, the door was thrown
open, and Ronald, leading his French friend,
entered.  All eyes were turned instantly towards
them.

"Stuart!  Stuart!  Ronald Stuart!" cried twenty
voices: but the light glittering on De Mesmai's
helmet and breast-plate startled some so much,
that their first impulse was to seize their weapons,
and many a dirk and claymore were grasped in
the expectation of seeing the room filled with
Frenchmen.  Those members of the company
who were sober enough, rose from the table to
welcome their newly found friend; but Louis
Lisle, taking his sword and bonnet from a stone
saint who had them in keeping, abruptly withdrew.

"Introduce me, Monsieur Stuart," said the
cuirassier, with a proud smile, "or by the bomb! we
will have each other by the throat.  Do your
comrades thus welcome strangers, by baring
sword and dagger?"

Ronald could scarcely get a word spoken as
his brother-officers crowded round him, and a
truly Scottish shaking of hands ensued; while a
hundred questions were asked him by the sober
in English,—by the less so in their more natural
Gaelic, about his absence, and returning thus
accompanied.  It was impossible at that time to
relate any particulars, so he determined on
deferring all explanations until another time.  Though
angry at the conduct of Lisle, he was nevertheless
much gratified by the friendly reception he met
with from the other officers; but as he had no
heart to partake in their carousal, he withdrew
soon after (to the disappointment of all) with
Alister Macdonald to his billet, until another
could be procured from an alcalde.  De Mesmai
remained at the table, and soon established
himself as the lion of the company, and although he
spoke always in Spanish, or very imperfect
English, he became a general favourite, and kept the
mess in roars of laughter.  Military topics were
studiously avoided, but he talked in his usual
style incessantly about duels and girls, brawls
and debauches, strange adventures and French
military frolics, until the morning drums beating
reveille through the streets, warned the jovial
party to separate; but I believe more than half of
them took their repose on the pavement of the
chapter-house, which had never before been the
scene of such carousing.

Next morning Stuart completed his toilet
hurriedly, with the intention of waiting on the
colonel.

"Prepare yourself for something disagreeable,
Ronald," said Macdonald, who was leaning over
a window which looked out on the principal street
leading from the Plaza to the river.  "Claude
A——, the adjutant, is coming here under the
piazzas.  He wears his sash and gorget, and I
have no doubt Cameron has sent him to pay you
a visit."

"I expected such; yet *the chief* is somewhat
hurried."

"Take care how you style him so: I was nearly
put under arrest for it at San Pedro.  Come in!"
cried Alister, as a smart knock was heard at the
room-door.

"Sorry to spoil your breakfast, Stuart, by this
early visit," said the adjutant, entering; "but
Cameron has sent me for your sword, and desires
me to say that you must consider yourself under
arrest, until you can state satisfactorily in writing
your reasons for absenting yourself for these nine
days past without leave.  He is in a towering
passion; all the blood of Lochiel seems to be
bubbling up in him, because you did not report
yourself last night.  I never before saw his eyes
glare as they do this morning."

"Pshaw!  Claude, you—"

"A fact, upon my honour.  But do not be
alarmed; he is too well pleased with your conduct
at Almarez to carry this affair to extremities.  I
believe, but for that night's work, he would bring
you to a court-martial instanter."

"The deuce he would!  Do you think so, A——?"

"Of course.  You know Cameron; there is not
a stricter fellow in the service,—a regular
martinet.  But you had better take your pen, and
endeavour to satisfy him by a sheet of foolscap.
'Tis well you left us so soon last night, as you
will require a clear head this morning.  Mine
aches as if it would fall in pieces; but I mean to
call at the wine-house, (you know the saying,)
'to take a hair of the dog that bit me.'"

"A very strange fellow, the French cuirassier,
Claude?" observed Macdonald.

"A hare-brained spark as ever I met with.  He
has played sad mischief with all ours.  We shall
not have one officer to each company on parade
this morning.  A dozen, I believe, are lying under
the table with himself.  Campbell, old Macdonald,
and our most seasoned topers were put to
their mettle by him.  But give me your sword,
Stuart; the colonel is waiting for it, but I trust
will not keep it long.  You must endeavour to
make your peace with him as soon as possible,
and not be under any fear of being put in
Coventry by our mess: we know you too well to
do that."

Ronald felt considerable chagrin as he beheld
Claude A——, the adjutant, carry off his weapon
and found himself under arrest, and in imminent
danger of being arraigned before a general
court-martial.  He composed himself to indite, for the
colonel's perusal, an account of his absence, which
he found a very delicate and difficult matter, as
he was unwilling that the mess should get hold
of poor Catalina's name to make it a subject of
ridicule, and quiz him about it, which he feared
would be done unmercifully, if he took not some
stern means to stop them.

Nearly a quire of paper was expended before he
could get a despatch worded to his own and
Macdonald's satisfaction,—one giving as brief and
concise an account as possible of his adventures,
and declaring that the reason of his sudden
departure from Almarez was to free the sister of Don
Alvaro, of Villa Franca, from Cifuentes the
well-known bandit, who had accompanied the first
brigade disguised as a priest.  Evan was despatched
with the letter to the colonel's quarters,
while Stuart and Macdonald, accompanied by De
Mesmai, went to visit D'Estouville,—the
unfortunate commandant of fort Napoleon, who was
dying of the wound he had received from the
officer of the 71st.

An old chapel, situated near the baths of Diana,
had been appropriated as an hospital for those
wounded at the forts of Almarez.  The design of
some gothic architect when the art was in its
infancy, it was a low dark building, with short
clumsy columns, gloomy arches, enormously thick
walls, and dismal little windows, between the thick
mullions of which the grey day-light seemed to
struggle to be seen.  On the worn flight of steps
ascending to the great door-way, lay a few dozen
legs, arms, hands, and feet, which had been
amputated and were lying there until the hospital
orderlies were at leisure to inter them.  During
the last war, the reckless manner in which
medical officers hewed off wounded limbs, without
attempting to reduce a fracture, has been often
reprehended.  What a scene of multiplied human
misery the interior of the chapel presented!  The
wounded soldiers, British and French, to the
number of some hundreds, lay in ranks on the damp
pavement, over which a little straw was thrown,
as no bedding could be given them.  Deep and
hollow groans of acute agony and suffering
sounded from many parts of the building, and the
continual rustling of the straw announced the
impatient restlessness of sickness and pain.  Here
lay the gallant and high-spirited conscript,
brooding gloomily, and almost weeping, over those
visions of glory, which the amputation of a leg
had suddenly cut short; and there the stern
grenadier of the Imperial guard lay coolly surveying
his own blood as it trickled through the straw,
and filled the carved letters of epitaphs on the
pavement stones.  Near him lay his conqueror,
the British soldier, shorn of a limb, dejected and
miserable, having nothing before him now but a
"passport to beg," and the poor apology for a
pension which grateful Britain bestows on her
defenders, with the happy resource of starving in
a parish workhouse.  All were pale as death, and
all disfigured by blood and bandages,—grisly,
ghastly, unwashed, and unshaven.  Often as they
passed up the aisle, Stuart and Macdonald held
the tin canteen to the parched lips of some
wounded man, who drank greedily of the hot stale
water it contained, and prayed them piteously to
adjust his bandages, or by doing some little office
to alleviate his pain.  Some were dying, and lay
convulsed among their straw, with the death-rattle
sounding in their throat—expiring, unheeded
and uncared for, without a friend to behold them
or a hand to close their eyes; and as soon as they
were cold, they were seized by the hospital
orderlies,[\*] and carried off for interment.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Well-conducted soldiers, excused from duty to attend
the sick.

.. vspace:: 2

A wretched combination of misery, pain, and
sorrow the interior of that little chapel presented,
and it made a deeper impression on Stuart and
Alister than on De Mesmai, who was an older
soldier, and had beheld, in twenty years'
campaigning, too much bloodshed and agony to recoil
at the sight of it there; but he loudly expressed
his pleasure at beholding the attention paid to his
countrymen.  He saw that no distinction was
made; the wounded of both nations received the
same attendance from the medical officers and
their orderlies; and more than one grenadier of
*the Guard* allowed his dark features to relax into
a grim smile, as his red-coated attendants held up
his head, to pour down his throat some dose of
disagreeable stuff.

"Ha!  Stewart," said Ronald, catching his
namesake the assistant-surgeon by the belt as he
was rushing past, with a saw in one hand and a
long knife gleaming in the other.

"Don't detain me, pray.  I have just clapped
the tourniquet on that poor devil in the corner.
I have to take his arm out of the socket, at the
shoulder, too—a fearful operation: you'll hear his
shrieks immediately.  Sorry to hear you are under
arrest.  You will get through it though,
doubtless,—being a favourite."

"Where is D'Estouville, the French major;
and how is he?'

"Near his last gasp, poor man.  You need not
go to him now, as he is dying; and troubling him
will not lengthen his life a second.  I could do
nothing more for him, and so have resigned him to
his fate.  I must attend to our own people, whose
lives are of more consequence,—every man being
worth exactly twenty pounds to government, as
you will see in—I forget what page of the
'Mutiny Act.'"

"How can you jest in such a horrid den as
this?  You surgeons are strangely cool fellows,
certainly.  But D'Estouville—"

"Is lying yonder at the foot of that marble
monument.  Do not trouble him now; he will be
dead in five minutes.  Excuse me: I have to
amputate a leg to prevent mortification, and its owner
is growling and swearing at my delay."

Under a gothic canopy lay the marble effigy of
a warrior of the days that are gone.  It was the
tomb of one of the Villa Franca family.  He was
represented in armour, and lying at full length,
with his hands crossed on his bosom.  The
canopied recess had been made a receptacle for
the caps and knapsacks of dead men, which were
without ceremony piled above the figure of the
Spanish cavalier.  A tattered pennon, a rusty
casque, and a time-worn sword, hung over the
niche, where a marble tablet announced it to be
the tomb of the noble knight Don Rodrigo de
Villa Franca:—"*Muerto en una batalia
con los Moros, a diez de Noviembre, del año de
mil y viente y siete.*"[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] "Slain by the Moors in battle, the 10th November of the
year 1027."

.. vspace:: 2

In front of this ancient tomb lay D'Estouville.
Alas! how much ten days of pain and suffering
had changed the gallant young Frenchman!  He
was stretched on a pile of bloody straw, stripped
to his shirt and regimental trowsers.  A large
bandage, clotted and gory, encircled his head,
and his once very handsome features were sadly
changed; they were sunken and hollow, pale and
emaciated to the last degree.  He lay motionless,
with his eyes closed; but his lips were parted, and
he respired through his clenched teeth with
difficulty.  His head rested on a knapsack, placed
under it by an honest Irishman of the 50th, who
lay on his left smoking a short black pipe, while
he surveyed, with a composed but rueful look, the
stump of his right arm.  On the other side lay a
Gordon Highlander, quivering in the agonies of
death: a shot had lodged in his breast, and he
too had been given up as incurable by the medical
officers.  The agony he endured had brought on
a delirium; he was chanting, in low and muttering
tones, a sad and plaintive Gaelic dirge,—probably
the death-song of his race; and as his
voice sunk and died away, the bold spirit of the
Son of the Mist seemed to pass with it.

"*Morbleu!* poor Victor!" said De Mesmai.
"Ah! messieurs,—surely he is not dead?"

At the sound of the French exclamation
D'Estouville opened his eyes, and attempted in
vain to raise his head; but a faint smile of
recognition passed over his pale features as he beheld
Ronald Stuart, and gazed on the well-known
uniform of De Mesmai.  "Poor fellow!" continued
the latter, while a tear glistened in his eye, as
he knelt down and took the hand of Victor; "he
is evidently far gone.  Many a merry bout we have
had together at old Marcel's, and many a midnight
frolic with the girls and gens d'armes in the Rue
de la Conference; but these times have all
passed now, and can never be again.  Speak to me,
my friend!  How is your wound?"

"*Les malheurs de la guerre!  Ah, De Mesmai,
mon ami, les malheurs de la guerre!*" muttered the
wounded man, and sunk backward on his miserable
bed; then pointing to his head he added, "*A
mon camarade—blessure—où—où—plaie mortelle!*"

"They have brought me here too, Victor, those
cursed misfortunes of war; but my case is not
so bad as yours.  The helmet is a better defence
than the grenadier cap against the straight-cutting
blades of these fiery Scots.  Cheer up, D'Estouville;
while there is life, hope remains.  You may
yet lead the old Guard in the charge! the Eagles
of the empire may yet flap their wings over you."

"Never," whispered Macdonald; "his race of
existence is over.  Why, then, inspire him with
false hopes of living longer?'

"He is one of those fellows that are very hard
to kill.  I know Victor," whispered the other in
reply; then continued as before, "The Emperor
has marked you for his own,—the whole service
say so, D'Estouville, and suppose that your
promotion will be as rapid as ever was Soult's,
Macdonald's, Bernadotte's, or any other marshal's of
the empire.  Remember these things, *mon ami*,
and never think of death!"

"Death's cold hand is upon me.  Ah!  Maurice,
how can I expect to conquer?"

"*Morbleu!* by determining to live, and to earn
honour and fame in spite of him.  Courage, my
friend."

"No, no, De Mesmai!" replied D'Estouville,
with that sudden life and energy which often
animates the dying when the moment of dissolution
draws near, while his pale cheek flushed, and a
light sparkled in his sunken eye.  "Honour and
glory—these are the dreams of every Frenchman,
and they once were mine, my constant thoughts,
never for a moment absent from my mind.  The
very visions of my sleep were full of the gloss
and glitter of military parade: martial honour was
the idol of my heart.  As a gallant young conscript
when I left my native home at Lillebonne, as the
hardened grenadier, as the dashing subaltern of
the Guard, as a wretched prisoner pining in Scotland,
and again as a free and daring soldier,—these
high hopes, this proud ambition, never left me for
an instant,—buoying and bearing me up under all
the toils of war and misfortune, until I found
myself stretched on the pavement of this chapel, a
dying captive!  Honour has faded away from me,
and the proud sentiments which caused my heart
to swell, to bound with rapture at the sharp roll of
the drum, now animate me no more.  Never again
will drum or bugle sound for me!"

"You speak very sorrowfully, in truth," replied
De Mesmai; "but some droning monk has been
putting these notions in your head.  Take care
you do not exhaust yourself, *mon ami*."

"Ah, Maurice! a thousand times I wish I had
fallen sword in hand at Almarez, rather than
lingered here, enduring for these past ten days the
extremes of mental and bodily agony.  Yet had
I only received a moment's warning, I question
much if that officer of the Scottish chasseurs could
have cut me down so easily."

"No.  In truth you were an excellent swordsman,
Victor,—sharp of eye, and sure of hand."

"I trust, Maurice, you will not be long a
prisoner.  'Twas a sad blank in my life, my
captivity.  Faith! *mon camarade*, I almost shiver at
remembrance of the castle of Edinburgh.  You
will remember me to Louis Chateaufleur and the
rest of your regiment; and do so particularly to
my own, should you ever fall in with them on
service."  He spoke now with more difficulty, and
at longer intervals.  "Glory to France, and long
life to the great Emperor!  I trust he will think
Major D'Estouville has done his duty.  Almarez
I defended to the last; and, Maurice, had you
not cut the pontoon, we might have effected our
retreat.  The emperor would have saved four
hundred soldiers of his noble old Guard."

"And your life, Victor."

"A mere bagatelle!  I lay it down in his
service."

"*Vive l'Empereur!*" cried some of his soldiers,
who lay within hearing on their pallets of straw.
The shout was taken up by many, and echoed
through distant parts of the chapel.  D'Estouville's
eye flashed brightly; he waved his hand as
he would have brandished his sword, and,
exhausted with speaking, and the emotions which
the gallant battle-cry aroused within him, he
again sank backwards, and by the spasms which
crossed his pallid features, they saw too surely that
the moment of death was nigh.  Again rousing
himself from his lethargy, he beckoned to Ronald,
who knelt down beside him.

"I would speak to you of Diane de Montmichel,"
he whispered, in tremulous and broken
accents.  "Her husband, Monsieur le Baron—de
Clappourknuis—the letter I gave you at
Truxillo; ah! *mon ami*, do you not understand me?"

"Indeed I do not, D'Estouville."

"The hand of the grim king of terrors is upon
me; the sands of life are ebbing fast, and my
voice will fail me soon.  Monsieur le Baron—"

"Is released from the castle of Albuquerque,
and has passed over to the French lines.  Think
not of these, D'Estouville."

"I—I would give you a message to Diane."

"Alas! how can I ever deliver it?"

"Find means, *croix Dieu!*" muttered he
piteously.  "Kneel closer to me.  I depend on your
honour, Monsieur Stuart.  Diane—Diane—"

"What of her?  Say—say, ere it be too late!"

But there was no reply.  What the Frenchman
would have said, expired on his lips, and he fell
back speechless on the hard knapsack which
formed his pillow.

He never spoke again; but in a few minutes
died, and without a struggle.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`DE MESMAI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   DE MESMAI.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Ah, me! how mournful, wan, and slow,
   |    With arms reversed, the soldiers come;
   |  Dirge-sounding trumpets full of woe,
   |    And, sad to hear, the muffled drum!"
   |                                    *John Mayne.*

.. vspace:: 2

The death-bed scene of poor D'Estouville,
although it made on the witnesses of it a deep
impression for the time, was easily passed over
when the feelings are blunted and deadened by
the continual excitement of campaigning.  They
had scarcely left the chapel or hospital, before the
shade of sorrow which their faces had worn
disappeared.  Macdonald went away on some duty;
Stuart's thoughts reverted to his arrest, and the
disagreeable predicament in which he was placed;
while De Mesmai began to talk in his usual light
and careless style.  He placed his scarlet
forage-cap very much on one side, tightened his sash,
arranging the tassels gracefully, and stuck his
glass in his eye to ogle and scrutinize the females
who passed.

"Poor Victor!" said he; "a merrier comrade
or more gallant soldier than he was, there is not
in the imperial service.  Many a glorious evening
we have had in Paris, flirting with the *jolies
grisettes* of the Rue des Trois Maries,—fighting with
the gendarmerie, and amusing ourselves by frolicking
with messieurs the good-natured bourgeois,—some
dozen of whom we have ducked in the
Seine.  These days are all passed away, and poor
Victor is gone to his long home.  War leads to
death or glory, and his fate to-day maybe ours
to-morrow; so, then, what is the utility of being
cast down?  *Vive la joie!* let us live and be merry
while we can.  Praised be our stars! here is a
wine-house, where we can spend the evening in a
jovial style, and scare away from our hearts the
gloom cast upon them by the death of D'Estouville.
*Diable! mon ami*; for what do you stare so
at that old ruinous mansion?"

"'Tis the house of the Villa Franca family.  I
received great kindness from them, when I came
to Merida for the first time."

"A picturesque ruin it makes, with its shattered
capitals and empty windows.  D'Estouville's
grenadiers did all that.  I have heard that he
carried off a very pretty creature from this place,
at least so Chateaufleur of ours told me.  He had
her at Almarez; but, like a cunning dog, kept her
closely out of my sight, lest I might have
procured her transfer to the tower of Ragusa, when
I was left in temporary command.  But we had
plenty of girls there, by the Pope!  We captured
a score of plump young *paisanas*; but their skins
were devilish brown, and their hands were all
chapped with milking goats and cows.  Here is
the wine-house,—but, *morbleu!* I have not one
infernal sous to clink upon another!"

"I have, *mon camarade*," said Stuart, producing
a purse containing forty duros, which he had
borrowed from Major Campbell, to procure favour
with whom he was obliged to endure two long
stories about Egypt.

"*Sacre!* forty duros?  A lucky dog and a most
gorgeous display,—'pon honour—really.  Enter
then, and we will drink a long glassful to the
continuance of the war."

From the wine-house they adjourned to the
Prado, where they strolled about under the shade
of the rich orange-trees, or lounged on the wooden
sofas.  De Mesmai smoked a cigar, and kept up,
to use a camp phrase, a running fire of words, and
laughed heartily at his own jokes; while Ronald
listened in silence, and surveyed with feelings of
mortification the regiment on its evening parade,
from which for the present he was excluded.

"Fine fellows, these bare-kneed Celts of yours,
Monsieur Stuart," said De Mesmai, as he knocked
the ashes from his cigar.  "A goodly row of most
captivating brown legs they have.  How pretty
the waving tartan seemed, as the corps wheeled
from open column into line.  They call forth
the admiration of the ladies too,—the delightful
creatures!  Really, 'pon honour, I think they peep
more at the Scottish plaids and plumes, than at
this smart uniform and bright steel bourgoinette
of mine.  A gallant chevalier your colonel is.  He
gives his orders with that firm tone of authority
which marks the true, the bold-hearted soldier,
and one born to command.  A *soldado* of most
goodly proportions is that long-legged field-officer,
who last night bored me to death about
Egypt, and his campaigns there.  Body o' the
Pope! look at that girl."

"Which?"

"With the black veil hung over the high
comb.  What a roguish black eye and most
excessively attractive pair of ankles she has!  I
will speak to her.  Ho! *ma princesse*—"

"Beware what you do, De Mesmai," interrupted
Ronald hastily.  "She is a lady, and one
of rank evidently, by the lace embroidery on
her stomacher and mantilla.  Some officers of
the 39th are with her, too."

"*Diable!* so I now perceive; and one of your
savage Scots chasseurs, I think."

"Savage!" repeated Stuart, dubious whether to
laugh or frown.  "He is an officer of the
Highland Light Infantry,—that corps with the tartan
trews, and bonnets without feathers.  By Jove! 'tis
Armstrong; the same officer who cut down
poor D'Estouville at Almarez.  He is flirting with
this young lady, and recks no more of the deadly
stroke he gave, than if he had killed a muircock.
Let us move on.  The Highlanders will march
past this way, and I little like to be sitting here
like an out-cast from them,—and without my
sword too, by heavens!"

"A prisoner of war,—*diable! Me voila à votre
service*.  I will go with you wherever you please.
But there are more girls congregated here, to see
the troops on evening parade, than in any other
part of this ruinous old city of Merida.  In France
they love, like the butterflies, to be in the sun; but
here they promenade under the cold shades of the
trees, or sail about beneath their gloomy damp
piazzas.  By the way, it has a most singularly
picturesque effect, a tall graceful figure with a
fluttering veil and floating mantilla gliding under
these old arches; quite mysterious, in fact.  Look,
for instance, at that lovely creature with the
auburn tresses.  *Tête-dieu!* how I long to wheel
that girl round in a waltz.  Ha! there is a
*rouge-et-noir* table not far from this, and a thought
strikes me; I shall make my fortune to-night.
Will you lend me a couple of these dazzling
duros you showed me a short time ago?"

"Undoubtedly, and with pleasure."

"*Vive la joie*!  Come along, then.  There is a
gaming-house in the Calle de Ferdinando, kept
by some officers of the Portuguese caçadores.
Come with me, and I will show you how to break
their bank, and carry off their glorious piles of
duros and dobloons."

"I never gamble," replied Ronald; "and by
the rules of our service 'tis strictly forbidden to
do so, either in camp or quarters."

"Bah! *mon camarade*.  If I had you within
sound of the bells of Notre Dame, I would soon
learn you to forget your northern prejudices."

Stuart's remonstrances and protestations were
made in vain.  The gay impetuosity of the
Frenchman overcame them all; and while
arguing about the matter they arrived at the door,
where a board, painted red on one side and black
on the other, announced that the *rouge-et-noir*
table was kept there.  A crowd of English,
Portuguese, and German officers were pressing round
the table, at the head of which sat the banker,
a swarthy Portuguese officer of light infantry,
with a long cigar in his mouth, and having
heaped up before him several piles of dollars,
doubloons, and British guineas,—all of which
were rapidly changing hands, at every turn of
the red and black cards.

Stuart remarked that there was not a single
Scottish bonnet in the room, and his national
abhorrence of gambling caused him absolutely
to blush at being there.  He was disgusted at the
wild eagerness, the intense anxiety, the bitter
disappointment, fierce anguish, or cruel triumph
which he witnessed in the features of the players.
The two dollars De Mesmai had borrowed were
soon added to the goodly pile which lay before
an officer of the 39th; and urged on by the former,
Ronald betted on several cards, all of which
turned up fatally, and he had the mortification
to behold every one of his remaining dollars
swept across the table in quick succession, and
coolly pocketed by a fierce-looking Spanish
officer of De Costa's brigade, who evidently thought
it no sin to gamble, although he wore on his left
breast the enamelled red cross of Calatrava, a
religious order of knighthood.[\*]  Ronald rushed
away from the hell, feeling absolutely furious at
his own folly and at De Mesmai, who, however,
continued at the table in hopes of borrowing
from some one.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Instituted by Don Santio of Toledo, in 1130.

.. vspace:: 2

The lesson was not lost on Stuart, who, from
that day until this, has never touched a card.
But that night's play left him literally penniless,
and in a strange city.  He was ashamed to apply
to any of his brother-officers, or expose his folly
to them; and as Gordon, the regimental paymaster,
had not received the arrears of pay, there
was nothing to be hoped for from him.  It was
now dusk, and he was wandering among the
groves of olive and willow that flourish by the
sedgy banks of the Guadiana and overhang its
current.  Here, while pursuing the narrow pathway
by the river-side, he was surprised by seeing
the figure of Dugald Mhor Cameron, the colonel's
private servant, standing at a short distance
from him; a sure sign that Cameron himself was
not far off.

Dugald Mhor (or big Dugald) was an aged
but hardy Highlander, from the country of the
Cameron, or the land of the great Lochiel on
the banks of Loch Linnhe, among the wild dark
mountains of Lorn and Morven,—the Morven of
Ossian.  From these he came to follow the son
of the laird through the continental wars, and he
had been by the side of Cameron in every battle
in which the corps had been engaged in Egypt,
Denmark, Holland, Portugal, and Spain, and had
been twice wounded,—once at Bergen-op-Zoom,
and again at the battle of Alexandria in Egypt.
Dugald was nearly seventy years of age, yet his
well-knit frame was strong and muscular as that
of a horse, and his hair was white as snow; while
his face was as dark as his tartan, by constant
exposure to the weather.

With the broad blue bonnet over his thin
white haffets, the heavy-belted plaid cast over
his gallant breast, the dirk, the pistol, and the
claymore dangling at his belt, his strong bare
limbs, and the brass-studded Highland target
slung on his shoulder, Dugald Mhor was the
*beau-ideal* of the loyal old Jacobite of the
'forty-five;' that period when the star of the Stuarts,
amid the last blaze of the true Scottish spirit,
flashed-forth but to vanish for ever.  It need
scarcely be added that old Dugald was a stanch
Jacobite.  He had witnessed the battle of
Culloden, whither, as a sort of page or attendant
gilly, he had followed Cameron of Lochiel.  Since
the day Fassifern left his home to follow the
drum, Dugald Mhor had been to him a kind of
standing orderly, friend, sometimes a governor,
but always a leal true northern henchman, that
would cheerfully have laid down his life, if by
doing so he should have pleased his master.

When Stuart beheld this kilted vassal of the
colonel's standing on the narrow path before him,
he was sure that the latter could be at no great
distance; a flush suffused his cheek, and he
became confused at the idea of encountering so
proud and fiery a man while lying under his
displeasure.  A turn of the path brought him in
view of Cameron, who was just bidding adieu
to Sir Rowland Hill.  To avoid a rencontre
now seemed impossible.  The general rode off
in the opposite direction, while Cameron
advanced straight towards Ronald by the narrow
footway at the river-side.

"Well, Mr. Stuart," said he frankly; "this
morning from my trusty Dugald Mhor I received
and perused your long letter concerning your
absence, for which I believe I must excuse you.  It
was a very unfortunate affair that of the Spanish
lady's death; but every means must be taken to
discover this rascal, Micer Cifuentes.  How deeply
you colour!  I trust I have said nothing to offend?
Ah!  I comprehend the matter fully now, by your
confusion.  There was a great deal more in that
letter than what met the eye, though it was very
cunningly worded.  But it will not do in these
days, even in Spain, to ride to the rescue of every
distressed damsel, and a knight-errant in a red
coat is a strange anomaly.  But I believe there
was much more of love than chivalry in the affair;
therefore, Stuart, I pass it over, as I trust it will
never occur again."

"To that, colonel, I may pledge you my word
of honour; one such adventure is quite enough
for a life-time."

"You are aware how far I might have carried
this matter; for one who commands a Highland
regiment, composed of such fiery spirits, and so
different from the line generally, must be strict.
Your absence has made a noise through the whole
division, and I have just been making your peace
with Sir Rowland Hill, who is very favourably
disposed towards you, in consequence of the
dashing manner in which you led the stormers on
at Almarez, and for this last affair,—the capture
of d'Erlon's aide-de-camp.  How very unluckily
the count escaped!  He would have been a noble
prize to have sent to Britain.  The adjutant will
send you your sword; and remember not to be
restive at the mess, as it is probable you will be
severely quizzed, the officers having heard of this
Spanish donna, and got a version of the story
very different from the real one."

That night Ronald returned to his billet with a
lighter heart than he had felt since the death of
Catalina.  His trusty squire of the body, Evan
Iverach, on learning the low state of his
exchequer, pressed upon him a purse of dollars,
which he had carefully saved up from his pay
with the intention of purchasing a silver-mounted
set of pipes for his father Donald, the old piper
at Lochisla.  Ronald, with much reluctance, took
the money as a loan, Evan vowing if he did not,
he would throw it out of the window into the
Guadiana, which ran below it.  Any chagrin he
had felt at being put under arrest, was entirely
obliterated by the hearty congratulations and
welcome he received from the officers assembled
on parade next morning.  But his indignation
was soon called forth again by the manner in which
Louis Lisle greeted him.  On advancing towards
him with his outstretched hand, Lisle bestowed
upon him a cold and angry glance, turned on his
heel, and withdrew to a distant part of the parade.
Ronald's fiery blood boiled up within him; and,
had not the memory of Alice arisen in his mind,
subduing and softening him, he would there and
then have called her brother to an account for his
singular conduct.  But smothering his indignation,
he returned to the group of officers with
a flushed brow and an angry eye, to have his
temper sorely tried for some time about the Spanish
lady, with regard to whom many stories had been
circulated at the mess-table.

On the evening of that day the streets of
Merida rang to the echo of muffled drums and
the sad notes of the military dead march, as the
funeral of D'Estouville passed on its way to the
church of San Juan, attended with similar
honours as would have been shown to a British
officer of the same rank.

The sword and cap, bearing the badges of the
brave old Guard, were laid on the lid of his coffin,
the pall of which was borne by Fassifern, and five
other field-officers.  His countryman, De Mesmai,
acted as chief mourner.  Another officer of the
French medical staff, who was also a prisoner in
Merida, attended likewise.  A smile of pleasure
kindled in the proud eye of the cuirassier as the
mournful procession passed between the ranks of
the first brigade, leaning on their arms reversed,
and lining the streets on both sides.  He was well
pleased at the sentiments of generosity and
chivalry which directed Sir Rowland Hill to evince
the same respect to the remains of a foe that
would have been paid to those of a friend; and
De Mesmai was one who knew well how to appreciate
them.  The grenadiers of the Gordon Highlanders
formed outside the church, under the
command of Major Campbell, and fired three
volleys in the air, while the grave closed over the
remains of what was once a gay and a gallant
heart.  The officers of the first brigade of infantry
would have erected a monument to the memory
of D'Estouville, but it was known that it would
be demolished by the Spaniards the moment the
British left the city; therefore the idea was
abandoned, and the tomb of the guardsman lies
unmarked and unknown under the chancel of the
great church at Merida, a few feet in front of
the mutilated monument erected to the memory
of Francisco Pizarro of Truxillo.  At the wine
casa and the *rouge-et-noir* table De Mesmai was
loud that night in praises of British generosity
and gallantry; but these he suddenly changed for
something very like invectives, when he was
informed that, by day-light next morning, he must
be prepared to accompany a detachment of sick
and prisoners, who were ordered to the rear.

"And where is our destination, monsieur, if I
may inquire?" asked he of Claude A——, the
adjutant of the Gordon Highlanders, who had
made the communication to him in French.  "Some
gay place, I hope.  Lisbon is it?"

"The castle of Albuquerque, I believe."

"*Tête Dieu!* a most detestable and gloomy
hole!  And I am to be mewed up there, am I,
monsieur?"

"For the present, until an opportunity occurs
for your transmission to some strong garrison-town,
across the Portuguese frontier, or home to
Britain."

"You are exceedingly kind, *Monsieur Officier*,
by the name of the bomb! most superbly so.
But I trust that dilatory little devil, General the
Count d'Erlon, will save you all this trouble.
And as for my transmission to England—*diable*!
I should be sorry his Britannic majesty's
government should take so much concern in my
affairs."  He smiled sourly, and twirled his black
moustaches.  "Ha! and what sort of being is
the officer who commands on the way to
Albuquerque?  I hope he will halt at La Nava: I
left a sweetheart there twelve months ago, with
whom I must leave my card in passing.  But the
officer,—is he a jovial trump, that will drink and
play deep,—stride, swagger, and swear like a
Hector?"

"None of *ours* are much given to any of these
habits," answered Claude drily.  "The Honourable
Louis Lisle commands."

"Lisle!  An ensign is he not?  A pretty boy with
yellow curls, more like the Duchess de Choiseul's
page than a belted soldier?  Ah! we shall get on
famously.  Such a chit will not cross me in my
amusements with these don Spaniards.  De Mesmai
of Quinsay under the orders of a young Scots
sub-lieutenant!  Ho, ho! excellent.  But, body
o' the Pope! tell me, monsieur, am I really to be
kept in the castle of Albuquerque?"

"Captain de Mesmai, I have already told you,"
replied the adjutant, turning to go.

"Then permit me to acquaint you, monsieur,
that such treatment is tacitly saying you doubt
that sacred word of honour which I pledged to
Ensign Ronald Stuart, when, as an officer and
gentleman, I surrendered myself to him on parole.
This being the case, that parole is dissolved; and
I consider myself at liberty to effect my escape
where, when, and how I please, without dishonour."

"As you choose," answered Claude quickly.
"But remember, you will probably be shot in the
attempt; or if retaken, will be degraded to the
rank of a private dragoon,—what in your service
you call a *simple cavalier*.  Remember, monsieur,
to be on the alert at day-break; you will hear
the sound of the warning pipes as they pass under
the piazzas of your billet."

With Lisle's detachment De Mesmai departed
next morning for Albuquerque, but by some
means effected his escape on the route there.
He afterwards fell into the hands of some of the
guerillas of Don Salvador de Zagala's band, by
whom he was treated with less kindness and
courtesy than he had received at Merida, and
with whom I must for the present leave him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HEIGHTS OF ALBUERA.  THE CROSS OF SANTIAGO`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HEIGHTS OF ALBUERA.  THE CROSS OF SANTIAGO.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Come away, come away,
   |    Hark to the summons!
   |  Come in your war array,
   |    Gentles and commons.
   |
   |  "Come every hill-plaid, and
   |    True heart that wears one;
   |  Come every steel blade, and
   |    Strong hand that bears one."
   |                      *Pibroch of Donuildhu.*

.. vspace:: 2

On the night of the 11th, or rather the morning
of the 12th of June, Ronald was awakened from
sleep by an officer, who occupied the same billet,
entering his chamber half dressed.

"Rouse, Stuart," said he; "something strange
has happened.  There is a noise and bustle over
the whole town."

"I have heard nothing yet, Kennedy," answered
the other, springing out of bed, and with
military instinct donning his regimentals hastily
in the dark.  "You have aroused me from the
most pleasant nap I have enjoyed for these six
months past."

"Hark! there go the pipes."

"'Tis not the turn-out.  What can be the
matter? 'tis still two hours from day-break.  We
shall be roughing it again with D'Erlon or Drouet,
I suppose."

"The pipes have ceased," said Kennedy, throwing
open the casement, where the voices of the
musicians were heard engaged in a quarrel.

"Plaw *the warning*, Hector Macfarlane, you
very great sumph!" exclaimed Macdonuil-dhu,
the piper-major, in great wrath.  "Was it *Hoggil
nam Bo*,—the pibroch of your ain mushroom
name, I desired you to plaw?"

"Oich, prut trut!" replied Macfarlane fiercely.
"I do suppose tat ta lads o' Lochsluai are as good
and as pretty men, and bear as auld a name, as
ony Macdonald o' the Isles.  Diaoul!"

"Hoch, Got tam! it's mutiny and repellion this!
Did ye move yer hand to yer dirk, Macfarlane?"
asked Macdonald furiously.  "Did ye grip yer
dirk to threaten me?"

"It's a far cry to Lochowe.  Gin you and I
strode there, ye would na cock your feather or
craw sae crouse," said the other coolly.  "It's
piper-matchor you are, and sorrow tak the hoor
that Hector Macfarlane, the son of Rori-bheg,
has to obey your orders!"  The angry reply of the
non-commissioned officer was lost in the sound
of the war-pipe, the drones of which Macfarlane
threw over his shoulder, and strode down the
street swelling with Highland indignation, while
he made Merida ring far and wide to the tune of
*Johnnie Cope*, the warning for the march, while
the drums, bugles, and trumpets of other
regiments, horse and foot, were heard in various
parts of the echoing city.

"Holloa!  Serjeant Macdonald, what is all this
noise and uproar about?" asked Stuart.

"I ken nae mair than an unporn pairn, sir,"
replied the leader of the pipers; "put it's a tammed
cauld morning to rouse puir chields frae their
plankets.  There is a soughing meeserable
*Hanoverian* wind plawing frae the east, sharp enough
to skin our pare hoghs, and be tammed tilt!  And
that trunken loon, Macfarlane, has sae mony
queghsfu' under his belt, that he took the dorts,
and in spite o' a' orders blew the pibroch o'
Lochsloy.  A ponnie thing for him—the son o'
Roribheg, a riever, hanged at Crieff for *liftin'*, to
speak in defiance at me!"

The voice of the adjutant bawling for his horse
was now heard, as he issued from under the piazzas,
attended by an orderly with a lighted lantern,
to collect the reports and get the companies
mustered.  The men were already falling in at the
alarm post, and the musquet-butts were heard
clattering heavily on the pavement, as one by one
they took their places in the ranks.

"Stuart, don your fighting jacket; pack up your
best scarlets for a ball when we reach Madrid,"
cried Claude, as he passed the window.  "We are
about to show Mr. Soult the point of war,

   |  'Gin he meets us in the morning,'

as the song says.  A despatch has within this hour
arrived from Wellington, and we are ordered off
to the front forthwith, to prevent Estremadura
being invaded.  Turn out as soon as you can; the
corps are nearly all mustered in our *Plaza de
Armas*.  Ho, there! orderly drummer; beat for
the coverers!  Fall in, covering Serjeants!"

The grey day-light was now beginning to make
objects visible.  The sky was clear, and of a cold
and dark blue, and a chilling blast swept through
the dull and gloomy streets, where all was martial
bustle and preparation.  While dressing himself
with more haste than care, Stuart heard the voice
of Cameron and the adjutant ordering and directing
the serjeant-major; he in turn bawled to the
Serjeants of companies, who were vociferously
calling the rolls, in which an immense number of
Jocks, and Tams, and Donalds followed each other
in succession.  All was commotion and 'hurry-skurry,'
amid which De Costa's brigade of Spanish
horse galloped past, brandishing their swords,
and shouting, "*Arma! arma!  Viva!  Viva!*" with
might and main.  General Long's brigade of
British followed, but in characteristic silence.

To prevent Marshal Soult from invading Estremadura
from the neighbouring province, Sir Rowland
Hill marched his brigades of horse and foot
to Sancho Perez, collecting from Zafra and other
places on his march all the Spanish and
Portuguese troops he could bring together to meet
the enemy, who advanced towards him in great
strength, plundering and destroying the grain and
vines on their route.  At Zafra they attacked and
defeated an advanced corps of Spanish dragoons,
commanded by the Condé Penne Villamur.  Animated
by this success, Soult continued to press
forward at the head of thirty-eight or forty
thousand men; and Sir Rowland Hill prudently fell
back upon the heights of Albuera with his division,
twenty-two thousand strong.  There he took
up a position, which every means were taken
to strengthen by the erection of trenches,
breastworks, and traverses, at the formation of which
fatigue-parties wrought day and night.  Fresh
troops joined them here daily, and Ronald heard,
with considerable pleasure, that Don Alvaro's
troop of lances were expected to join the Spanish
brigade.  Alvaro's command was a sort of
independent troop, unattached to any regiment, like
*les compagnies franches*, the free troops or
companies, in the old French service.  The second
division occupied this entrenched position twelve
days, awaiting the appearance of Soult, who
advanced no nearer than Santa Martha, a town about
a long day's march distant.  He showed no
disposition to fight a second battle of Albuera, the
ground being so strong and its occupiers so
determined, that the heights could only have been
captured with immense loss,—if indeed Soult could
have carried them at all.  On the first night after
the position was taken up, a blunder of Evan's
caused no ordinary commotion throughout the camp.

At the base of the heights, where a stream called
the Albuera runs, he was posted as an advanced
sentinel in a most wild and dreary spot.  A wide
and desolate plain, stretching away towards Santa
Martha, lay before him; black ridges like waves
of ink rose behind; and all around were scattered
the ghastly remnants of the battle fought on the
ground twelve months previously.  The night was
gloomy and dark, the sky was starless, and not
a sound broke the solemn stillness of the hour
save the Albuera, brawling and gurgling along
that deep and savage-looking ravine, by means of
which the French had out-flanked the Spaniards.
Excepting the murmur of the mountain-torrent,
all was silent as the tomb; not a blade of grass
was stirring, and those gloomy fantasies, so apt to
fill the strong imagination of a Highlander, arose
appallingly before Evan.  Anxiously and intently
he had fixed his eyes on some shrubbery or tall
weeds, which appeared in the twilight afar off.
These his heated imagination transformed into
battalions of foot and squadrons of horse, advancing
stealthily over the plain.  He fired his musquet,
and retired on the main body of his picquet,
which lay within an *abbatis* composed of cork
trees, felled and intertwined for a breast-work
around them.  The whole camp rose in arms,
expecting instantly to be attacked, but the dawn
revealed the cause of Evan's mistake.  A few
days after Soult had taken possession of Santa
Martha, Ronald had the command of one of the
picquets thrown out in that direction.  All were
on the alert, as the enemy were continually
expected to advance from their cantonments.  The
picquet, which consisted of thirty Highlanders,
occupied the summit of a rocky eminence; where,
piling their arms, they lay down on the green
sward to watch the sun, as it verged towards the
western horizon, glittering on the polished arms of
solitary sentinels and videttes posted at equal
distances along the banks of the rocky river, and in
front of that dark forest from the bosom of which
its waters came.  A Spanish sunset is a glorious
scene in June, but which of the Highlanders there
would have exchanged the Scottish pine or purple
heath, for the olive grove or clustering grapes
of Spain?  Ronald was seated in a grassy nook,
employed in conning over the pages of the Madrid
*Gaceta*, when he was roused by the trampling of
hoofs and clang of harness.  He sprang up in time
to see the shining helmets of a hundred French
cuirassiers flashing in the sun-beams, as they
issued successively from a deep and narrow gorge
on his left, into which they had contrived to
penetrate and advance unseen,—evading thus the
sentinels of the other picquets.

"Death and fury! we are lost men.  Our retreat
is cut off!  Stand to your arms," cried he,
drawing his sword.  "Form circle round the face
of the rock,—show your front to them!  Be cool,
and steadily take your aim.  Keep up your fire
till the cavalry picquets in front of the wood ride
to our rescue.  Ha! the gallant 9th are in their
saddles already."

With coolness and precision his orders were
obeyed.  The brave little band, aware of the
power of foot over horse, formed circle round
the eminence, and opened a close and well-directed
fire, before which the cuirassiers were
compelled to waver, recoil, and stay for some
minutes their headlong charge, being impeded and
entangled with falling men and horses; and the
former, if not dead when they fell, were soon
trodden to death by the hoofs of the rear rank.

"Charge!" cried the officer, a dashing fellow,
who led them on.  "*Charges en queue la troupe!*"
and firing their pistols, they came furiously
forward sword in hand, making the turf shake as
they thundered along.  It was a critical moment
for the little band!  A sharp twinge in his left
shoulder informed Ronald that a pistol-shot had
taken effect there, depriving him of the use of
his arm; and several of his men lay killed and
wounded among the feet of their comrades, who
could not help feeling a little dismayed at the
overwhelming number of their opponents.

"Keep up your fire, brave Highlanders! stand
fast, true Scotsmen!" cried Stuart, brandishing
his claymore.  "Aim deliberately and level low;
strike below the corslet.  Courage, my boys! 'tis
all for our lives.  They will kill, as they cannot
capture.  Hold your ground; keep shoulder to
shoulder, and give them the bayonet at the face
of the rocks.  Hurrah! well done, my own brave
comrades!  We shall be rescued instantly."

The cuirassiers advanced in a semi-circle boldly
enough; but the steady fire of their opponents
caused them again to recoil.

"*Vive l'Empereur!  Chateaufleur, Chateaufleur! retournez
la charge.  Charge!*" cried the officer
again, and again the serried ranks came rushing
on with renewed impetuosity; but they were once
more driven back, leaving the ground strown with
writhing men and steeds.  A few resolutely pressed
forward in the rashness of their daring, and struck
at the defenders of the rock across the ridge of
deadly bayonets which protruded over it.  But
they were at once destroyed, shot and bayoneted.
One soldier, who was cut across the face,
clubbed his musquet and dashed out the brains
of his adversary.  And one powerful French
dragoon grasped the Serjeant of the picquet, and
attempted to drag him down by main strength
from the rock; but Ronald saved him, by plunging
his sword through the corslet of the Frenchman,
who tumbled from his saddle, and was
dragged away down the ravine of the Albuera
by his affrighted horse.

The rock was again free, but not entirely so,
as the cuirassiers, who were reduced to half their
original number, were preparing to renew the
attack, which appeared to be general along the
whole chain of outposts, as the sound of firing
was heard in every direction.  The picquets of
the 39th and 66th regiments, on the right and
left, were retiring rearward on the heights, firing
as they fell back, on bodies of the enemy's
cavalry which were advancing over the plain.
Ronald beheld all the other out-picquets retiring
in safety.  His alone had been cut off, and by
means of that accursed ravine!  His little party
were now reduced to sixteen effective men, and
he gave them and himself up for lost.  But aid
was nigh; part of De Costa's cavalry, lying in
front of the wood, were ordered forward by Sir
Rowland Hill to his rescue.  Onward they came
with the speed of the wind, bearing death on the
points of their spears.  Ronald beheld with
delight that it was the troop of Alvaro de Villa
Franca, who had just joined De Costa, which
was moving to his aid.  As they came on, they
raised the old battle cry of Spain.  "*San Jago, y
cierra España!*" was the shout, as they swept
gallantly on in a compact mass,—horse to horse,
helms and corslets glancing, plumes and pennons waving.

"*Senora Beatificada* strengthen our spears!"
cried Alvaro, rushing forward with his uplifted
sword.  "Follow me, Montesa!  Saint James and
Close Spain!  Stand, Frenchmen, if ye be true
cavaliers!  *Viva!  San Jago, y cierra España!
Cerrar con el enemigos!*"

The lances of the front rank sunk to the rest,
while those of the rear protruded over the casques
of the former, and onward still they pressed,
shaking the very rock from which the rescued picquet
viewed this new conflict.  Not a whit dismayed
at the number or character of their opponents, the
undaunted cuirassiers met them half-way, and a
most gallant hand-to-hand conflict ensued.  The
scene when the adversaries first met was a perfect
combat in the style of the days of chivalry,—the
realization of a scene of romance.  The proud
battle-cry of the Spaniards, answered by the
'*Vive l'Empereur!*' of the French,—the crash
of lances, splintering on casque and corslet,—the
clash of blades,—the tramp of hoofs,—the
dust,—the blood,—the groans and shrieks,—the curses,
the spurring and prancing, as the parties
intermingled,—the brown uniforms and the blue,—the
steel helmets and the brass,—the red plumes and
the black,—the tall spears and uplifted sabres
flashing in the setting sun,—the gaudy standard
of the Spaniards,—the eagled guidon of the
French, fluttering and waving above the conflict—the
dead and the wounded trodden heedlessly
below,—formed altogether a most exciting and
soul-stirring scene.

Alvaro distinguished himself in no ordinary
degree.  The long horse-hair on his crest was
seen dancing up and down amidst the thickest
of the mélée, and whenever his sword descended,
a saddle was emptied by the blow.  But Ronald
could not remain long to witness the valour of his
friend, although he eagerly wished to do so.  He
drew off the remnant of his picquet, and crossing
the Albuera, retired into the trenches of the
camp, where of course the whole division were
under arms.

The outposts were driven in on all sides; and
satisfied with this display, Soult brought off his
cavalry, who had suffered severely in the contest.
Ronald's wound was found to be severe; but the
shoulder-blade had escaped fracture, and as soon
as it was dressed, he rejoined his company with
his arm slung.  On the disappearance of the
French, the troops piled arms, and all was again
the same as before, save the plain in front of
Albuera, which was strewn with dead and wounded,
and other relics of the skirmish.

As Stuart sat in his tent, writing an account of
the day's fray for Lochisla, the door became
darkened, and Don Alvaro, entering, grasped him by
the hand.  He was pale with fatigue, and Ronald
knew, by the increased gravity and sorrow
imprinted on his features, that he was aware of his
sister's death, and that it lay heavy on his heart.

"*Amigo mio*," said he, "a minute later had seen
your brave picquet cut to pieces.  We drove back
these gay cuirassiers in glorious style, fighting,
like true soldados, at point of sword and spear
every inch of the way."

"I have a thousand thanks to return you, Don
Alvaro, for the dauntless manner in which you
rode to the rescue.  These cuirassiers were tough
fellows, and fought with a bravery, equalled only
by that of their opponents."

"Stay, senor; there is another subject on
which I would rather converse with you, than of
our hourly occupation of fighting," replied Villa
Franca, as he cast aside his leather gauntlets, and
unclasping his helmet, wiped the dust from his
swarthy face and dark moustaches.  "Catalina,
my idolized sister,—I would ask you about her?"

Stuart's heart beat quicker.  "You have then
heard?" said he sorrowfully.

"Yes, senor; from Ignacio El Pastor, a priest
of Estremadura, I learned the terrible intelligence.
I fell in with him near Badajoz, when bearing
your letter to my cousin and wife Donna Inesella.
I took the liberty of opening it, and making
myself master of its contents; and thus became
aware of my sister's dishonour and deplorable
murder.  Don Ronald Stuart, there is something
very singular in all that affair; and I must request
that you will give me a detailed account of the
whole occurrence, without the omission of a single
circumstance, for the truth of which I hold your
honour, as a cavalier and soldier."

"How is this, Senor Alvaro?" replied Ronald,
alike surprised and displeased at the tone and
bearing of the Spaniard.  "I consider it next to
an impossibility that you should suspect me of
any thing wrong, or of leaving any thing undone."

"*Amiga mio*, your pardon.  I spoke somewhat
hastily; but when I mention the tumult of this
day's conflict, and the excitement which the
recollection of my dear and beautiful sister arouses
within me, I have a sufficient apology."  He leant
against the pole of the tent and covered his face
with his hands, betraying an emotion in which
Ronald could not but participate.  "Pardon me,
Senor Stuart," continued the cavalier, "you loved
my poor sister too well to deserve that I should
judge harshly of you; but say on, and tell all you
know of her dreadful death."

The Spaniard stretched himself on the turf
floor of the tent, and resting on his helmet, leant
his head upon his hand, and fixing his keen dark
eyes upon Ronald's, listened to the account given
by the latter of her death.  He began with his
meeting her at Almarez, and without concealing a
single sentiment which had animated them, or an
observation which had passed, he continued the
narrative down to the hour of her burial at the
convent of Jarciejo.  But both became greatly
excited as the tale proceeded.  Love, sorrow, and
indignation caused Ronald's features to flush, and
his brow to knit; but those of the hot-brained
Spaniard became black with fury, and convulsed
with the excess of those passions to which his
tongue could not give utterance.  He wept and
groaned, and grasped the hilt of his poniard
energetically.  When Ronald ceased, he started from
the ground, with his large dark eyes flashing like
those of an incarnate demon.

"Moderate your transports, Don Alvaro; be
calm, I beseech you!" said Stuart, grasping him
by the arm.

"Cavalier, your story has driven me to frenzy,"
cried he, through his clenched teeth.  "You
cannot have loved Catalina as she deserved to be
loved, otherwise you would not be so calm in such
a terrible hour as this.  Excuse me, senor; alas!
I know not what I utter.  You come of a northern
people, less prompt to ire and vengeance than the
fiery Spaniard.  But much as you may have
heard of Spanish vengeance," said he, becoming
suddenly calm, "all the tales that have been told
of it since the days of King Bamba or Roderick
the Goth will fall immeasurably short of mine.
I have left no means untried to capture Narvaez
Cifuentes, but where the ban-dog lurks at present
I know not.  But the hour of retribution will yet
come, and my fury will burst on his devoted
brow like a thunderbolt."  He sunk upon his
knees, and ratified a solemn vow of vengeance by
kissing the bare blade and cross-hilt of his
stiletto.  "Senor," said he, "is it the custom in
your native land to swear across the dagger?"[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] All oaths in courts of law, and others in Spain,
are sworn across a sword or dagger.

.. vspace:: 2

"In the days of my grandsire it was; and there
are yet some among our Scottish hills who
consider none now binding, unless sworn over the
unsheathed dirk."

"'Tis well: it shows the military spirit of
your people.  Conform to the present customs of
Spain, and to those of your northern ancestors.
Swear with me, cavalier."

Promptly as Alvaro could have wished, Ronald
unsheathed the long Highland dirk with which
he had lately equipped himself.  It was a
handsome weapon set with jewels, and accoutred with
knife and fork, like the regimental dirks now
worn by every Highland officer: and across it he
vowed to aid Alvaro in delivering Cifuentes up
to vengeance.

"This is well.  I will now be calm," said the
cavalier in a tone of satisfaction.  "You may have
some scruples about slaying the dog with your
own hand; but deliver him over to the first
alcalde, and he will reserve him for the fury of
Alvaro of Villa Franca."

"Such a reservation may do, should I meet
him in camp or city; but woe to him should
we forgather in any desert spot,—my sword and
his heart will not be long asunder."

"Spoken like a true hidalgo, who needs no
friend save his own right hand.  Our Lady del
Pilar! slay me this earthly fiend, and I will
consider you as much my brother as if my sister,
my sublime Catalina, had wedded you at the altar.
Although in truth, to be frank with you, I would
rather she had bestowed her hand on her cousin,
the Condé of Truxillo, a brave cavalier, who has
loved her long and dearly.  What now, Pedro?
Do you bring me the list of killed and wounded?"
said he, as Serjeant Gomez stood erect at the
triangular door of the tent, and brought his right
hand up to the peak of his helmet, in a sweeping
military salute.

"The Valencian rogue, senor cavalier; how are
we to dispose of him?"

"Ha!  I had forgotten.  Right, my true soldado.
A base goatherd, senor," said he, turning
to Ronald, "a most contemptible traitor, who
guided up the ravine those hundred cuirassiers
who so nearly cut your picquet off.  Pedro
captured the rogue after the skirmish.  He is a
notorious spy and traitor.  Where is he now, Pedro?"

"Tied hard and fast, like a Merino sheep,
under the belly of my Andalusian," answered
Pedro with a grin.

"You had better turn him over to the
provost-marshal of the camp," said Ronald; "he will
give him his deserts from the branch of the nearest
tree.  The rascal! by his treachery to his
country my company has lost fourteen gallant hearts,
and I have won this wound."

"As he is a prisoner of mine," said Alvaro,
"I will dispose of him, and save senor the
provost-marshal any trouble in the matter.  Desire a
file of troopers to dismount and load their
carbines,—no! that were a waste of King
Ferdinand's powder.  Run your dagger into his throat,
Pedro, and see that you strike deep; then fling
his carcase over the rocks into the Albuera, and
let it rot in that same ravine that he knows so
well."

Pedro disappeared, and almost instantly a
prolonged shriek, which startled the whole camp,
announced that the unscrupulous *sargento* had
obeyed his orders to the very letter.  Ronald was
about to express some abhorrence of this summary
mode of execution, when he was interrupted.

"Villa Franca," said a handsome Spanish cavalry
officer, about twenty years of age, appearing
at the door of the tent; "the Condé Penne
Villamur wishes to see you.  Our brigade and
De Costa's have been ordered to the front, as an
advanced post.  Such are the orders of Sir
Rowland Hill.  The condé would speak with you
without delay, and our trumpets will sound 'to
horse' in an hour."

"'Tis well, Lorenzo.  I am in a true fighting
mood to-day, and our troop of lancers are in
glorious order.  The Marquess de Montesa of
Valencia," said Alvaro, introducing the stranger to
Ronald, "the senior lieutenant of my lances."

"A sharp skirmish that was, in which we were
engaged a short time ago, senor," said Montesa
with a laugh.  He was one of those gay fellows
who laugh at every thing.  "We appear to have
shared alike in the misfortunes of war," he added,
pointing to his left arm, which was bound up in
his red Spanish scarf.

"Ha, marquess! your presence reminds me of
what other thoughts had nearly driven from my
memory.  Look you, Senor Don Ronald," said
Alvaro, displaying a golden cross suspended by a
red-and-yellow riband.  "We have been
commissioned by my relative, Alfonso de Conquesta,
Grand-master of the military order of Saint James
of Spain, to invest you with this badge, and create
you a knight-companion of our most honourable
order, as a reward for your bravery at Almarez,
accounts of which have been fully blazoned forth
by the *Gacetas* of Madrid and other places."

Stuart, who had longed with all the ardour of
a young soldier for some of those military
decorations with which the bosoms of foreign troops are
covered, received the cross with a pleasure which
he could not conceal.  At that time neither medal
nor star was to be seen in our service, save among
the officers of the 15th Light Dragoons, who
received from the Emperor of Germany an 'order
of Merit' for their singular bravery at
Villiers-en-Couche, in 1794.

"A most beautiful cross indeed, Don Alvaro,"
said Stuart; "but our mess are droll fellows, and
I shall be sadly quizzed about it."

"A badge such as this should raise other
sentiments than those of ridicule in the minds of
honourable cavaliers," observed Montesa.  "You
will find it a star for the ladies' eyes to follow.
Our Spanish damsels know well, that the tried
and proved soldier alone wins the cross and
riband of St. James."

"The marquess has your diploma of knighthood
in his sabre-tache: he will explain to you
the rules of the order.  Meanwhile, I shall
attend the noble condé," said Alvaro, and
departed.  The diploma, a parchment containing
the oath, the rules of the order, and bearing its
seal appended, was written in Spanish and Latin,
and Ronald was a little startled at the tenour of
the vow.

"'Tis no small honour the noble and venerable
Grand-master confers upon you, senor," said
Montesa, after reading over the document.  "The
order of Saint James is one of the most ancient
and chivalric in Spain.  It was instituted, in the
year 1170, by Ferdinand II. king of Leon and
Galicia.  It is conferred solely on hidalgos of
the highest rank, very seldom on foreigners, and
never yet on a heretic."

"I am afraid, marquess, your Spanish prejudices
will incline you to class me with the
latter."

"I trust that, although as true a Catholic as
ever kissed cross, I have more liberality, and the
Grand-master is too anxious to enrol you as a
gallant soldier in the order, to inquire much
about your tenets, which in truth are doubtful,"
said Montesa laughing, "if I may believe the
reports of my fair cousin, the abbess of Santa
Cruz.  Religious inquiries may be dispensed with,
but for form's sake the vows are indispensable;
and when Alvaro returns, we will examine and
sign the diploma sent hither by Don Alfonso."

"The vows; I should be glad to know them.
By your cross, I perceive that you are a knight
of the order."

"Every Spanish officer of distinction is,"
replied Montesa, with a proud smile.  "We are
supposed to observe the rules of San Austin,
and vow obedience, conjugal fidelity to our
wives—*demonio!* and service to all ladies.  Things
easily sworn to," added he, laughing heartily,
"but hard to keep in Spain.  By San Jago!  I
have broken them a score of times.  Senor, you
know that vows and restrictions which suited
the steel-clad knights of Ferdinand of Leon, will
scarcely suit the cigar-smoking and dashing
officers of Murillo or Don Carlos D'Espagna's
divisions.  Our Lady! we would as soon swear to
the vows of the bare-footed Franciscan.  But you
will have to make it appear that your ancestors
have been, at least, hidalgos or gentlemen for
four generations."

"For sixteen, if you choose, marquess; but
I should need the assistance of some northern
bard to unravel the matter.  However, my colonel
will resolve that point for you."

"And that in your veins there runs not the
base blood of Jew, Morisco, or heretic; and that
you have never been called in question by the
late Inquisition,—the devil confound it!"

"To these I may freely swear No! on blade
and bible."

"You see by the diploma," continued Montesa,
with a droll smile, "that knights in their
noviciate are obliged to tug an oar in the king's
galleys for six months, to harden them to labour;
and then live for six months more in a Carthusian
monastery, fasting and praying, being the while
scantily supplied with black bread, and liberally
with water to wash away their sins and enormities."

"The deuce, marquess!  These disagreeable
preliminaries will scarcely suit me; and I fear
I must forego the high honour intended me by
the venerable Grand-master."

"Not at all, senor," replied Montesa.  "Were
these parts of the military noviciate to be
rigorously exacted, how very few of our Spanish
caballeros of Madrid would display their crosses
on the gay Prados.  By Santiago!  I would see
De Conquesta and his order at the bottom of
the Mediterranean, before I would submit to such
degradation.  Besides, senor, if twelve months
campaigning here will not harden us, nothing on
earth will."

"How then, marquess?"

"A few doubloons paid to the grand-treasurer,
at Cadiz, where at present Don Alfonso resides,
will procure you a dispensation from these, and all
will then be right.  Ha! here comes Villa Franca.
You have made dispatch with the condé."

"Montesa," said Alvaro, entering, "our trumpets
will blow 'boot and saddle' instantly.  The
Spanish horse will relieve General Long's
brigade of the out-picquet duty on the Santa Martha
road.  We move the moment the sun dips
behind the heights of Albuera."

"You will probably see some fighting before dawn."

"True, Senor Stuart; and perhaps a few saddles
will be emptied before the bugles sound the
*réveille*," replied Montesa, whose own was
doomed to be one of them.  "Ho! there go our
trumpeters already.  Alvaro, we had better invest our
friend with his cross; dispensing, of course, with
the mummery of monks and godfathers.  *Diavolo!*
we ought to have had a fair lady to clasp on his
belt and affix the star.  Would we were near the
convent of Jarciejo!"

"The lady must be dispensed with likewise.
Hark! the condé already blows 'to horse!'  He
is somewhat impatient, truly.  Lend me your
sword, marquess; I cannot bestow the knighthood
with mine, as the cross-guard was broken off in
our late fandango with the enemy.  Let us seek
the tent of Don Juan Cameron; and when we
have been satisfied on some points of lineage,
amigo mio, amidst the officers of your own brave
regiment you shall become our sworn
knight-companion."

"A most unceremonious instalment," said Montesa,
"but war and necessity must be pleaded for
our excuse; and the knight that is created in a
tent, is more likely to prove a true cavalier, than
he who receives his spurs in the carpeted palace
or decorated chapel."

In Fassifern's tent Stuart was duly dubbed
knight of Saint James, having as such the
privilege of wearing his bonnet in presence of the
king of Spain.  As soon as the hasty ceremony
was over, the Spaniards sprung to their saddles
and departed, leaving Ronald with the cross on
his breast amid a circle of his brother-officers,
who, with their congratulations, threw in sundry
dry jokes.

For many months afterwards he was known
among them as "the knight of Santiago," seldom
receiving any other name except when on duty.
Jokes must be furnished for mess and parade,
and Ronald's cross was a standing one.  He
became, however, a greater favourite with the
colonel and regiment.  He was esteemed by the
officers and beloved by the soldiers, who would,
as they emphatically said, "storm hell's yetts to
serve him."  Than British soldiers, none know
better how to appreciate the good qualities of
an officer who treats them well, and their love,
esteem, and confidence, which cannot fail being of
service to the officer himself, are easily gained by
kindness and affability.  Nor was Saint James's
cross the only piece of good fortune that Ronald
obtained.  He had returned to his tent, where he
sat finishing his letter for Lochisla, and regretting
bitterly that he was unable to send another for
Inchavon, when Alister came in with a newspaper
in each hand.

"I congratulate you, Sir knight of Santiago de
Compostella; the saints are propitious to you
certainly, or the Horse Guards at least.  Lisle has
sent me these papers up from the castle of Belem,
from which place he was just about to set out on
his return with a detachment of convalescents.
Look you here."

"What! any more orders of knighthood?"

"Something more substantial.  'War-office,
24th—no, 28th foot, Lieut. Dalbiac to be captain,
*vice* Paget, killed in action.  Ensign Stuart,
from the 92nd Highlanders, to be lieutenant,
*vice* Dalbiac."

"Ha! is it really possible?" exclaimed Ronald,
springing up.

"Quite, and a most lucky dog you are.  You
may thank Almarez and Sir Rowland Hill for this.
He recommended you for promotion, you know."

"The 28th is an English regiment—"

"The gallant slashers."

"I should be sorry to leave the Highlanders,—one
of our most dashing national regiments."

"Your taste appears to be consulted admirably.
Look at this *Gazette* in the next paper.  '92nd
Highlanders.—Brevet-major Colin Campbell to
be major, *vice* Macdonald, appointed to the 8th
Garrison Battalion; Lieut. Macdonald to be
captain, *vice* Campbell; Lieut. Ronald Stuart, from
the 28th foot, to be lieutenant, *vice* the
Honourable Sholto Douglas, who exchanges."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Stuart, as they shook
hands.  "I shall be with you still: Cameron has
planned this matter, surely.  But this Honourable
Sholto,—I have never had the pleasure of seeing
him."

"Oh! he has been on the staff in Ireland for
these three years past.  A drawing-room soldier,
that has no idea of bivouacks and tough ration
beef,—fording rivers up to the neck, and having
forced marches of forty miles.  Sholto has kept
himself clear of these matters, and is consequently
no favourite with the chief—Cameron, I mean;
the warning he gave me about that title at San
Pedro must not be forgotten.  I wish you joy
heartily, Ronald, notwithstanding you are
promoted over my head.  However, I am near the top
of the ensigns, and the next engagement may
provide for some of the seniors.  We must wet
the new commission to-night in glorious style;
and, hark! firing, by Jove!  The out-picquets
are engaged!  Soult is at it again."  Drawing
back the door of the tent, they saw the flashes of
musquetry and gleam of steel appear on the Santa
Martha road, and wreaths of white smoke curling
up among the rocks and broken ground between
showing that a running skirmish had commenced.
The noise of the firing became more rapid and
loud, and then died away; and the Spanish
cavalry were seen sword in hand, pursuing the French
at full gallop.  The Condé Penne Villamur had
repelled the attack of the French cuirassiers, and
having defeated them, rashly left his ground in
pursuit along the road to Santa Martha; where,
falling into an ambush of several squadrons of
horse, his Spaniards were almost all cut to pieces.
Don Alvaro, at the head of his lancers, charged
madly through and through them, and brought
off the condé, after a most desperate and bloody
conflict fought hand to hand with sword and
spear, amid which the gay and brave young
Marquess of Montesa was slain, being "cloven to
the teeth, through steel and bone," by Louis
Chateaufleur, a major of cuirassiers, mentioned by
De Mesmai in preceding chapters.  Alvaro was
so severely wounded by a sword-thrust between
the joints of his breast and back-plate, that he
was rendered unserviceable for some time; and
procuring leave, departed for Idanha-a-Velha,
where Donna Inesella still resided.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MARCH TO TOLEDO`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MARCH TO TOLEDO.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "O, leeze me on the philabeg,
   |  The hairy knee and gartered leg!
   |  But aye the thing that glads my e'e,
   |  Is the *white cockade* aboon the bree."
   |                              *Jacobite Song.*

.. vspace:: 2

Sir Rowland Hill, finding that the French
marshal lacked determination to attack his strong
position at Albuera, resolved to assail his legions
in their quarters at Santa Martha, for which place
the whole division marched on the morning of the
1st July.  The enemy retired as usual before him,
their rear-guard skirmishing with the cavalry
advance of the British, who suffered some loss at
forcing the passage of the Guadacia, upon the ford
of which the French brought their flying-artillery
to bear; and against Berlenza some fighting
ensued, and Ronald Stuart narrowly escaped being
cut in two by an eighteen-pound shot from the
enemy's guns.  Many weeks were consumed in
tedious marching and skirmishing, in which there
was neither glory nor gain to be acquired; and
right glad were the second division when the
route for the gay city of Aranjuez, the Windsor of
Spain, reached them while stationed at the dull
and uninteresting town of Don Benito.

At Llerena, a town romantically situated at the
base of the huge Sierra San Bernardo, they
received intelligence of the glorious victory won
by Lord Wellington's army over that of Marshal
Marmont on the field of Salamanca; and learned
that Joseph, the *ci-devant* king of Spain, had
been driven from his usurped throne, and compelled
to establish his head-quarters in the city of
Valencia.

A Spanish peasant, who had witnessed the
battle, brought the tidings to Llerena, which was
illuminated in consequence; and a huge bonfire,
lighted by the 36th regiment, blazed from the
summit of San Bernardo.

When news of the victory obtained at Salamanca
reached Marshal Soult, he raised the siege
of Cadiz and retreated towards Cordova, leaving
his cannon and ammunition in the hands of the
British.  He drew off all his troops from
Estremadura, in consequence of which the presence of
the second division was no longer requisite in that
province: hence the unexpected route for
Aranjuez.  Gladly they bade farewell to Don Benito,
turning their faces towards Castile—the famous
and romantic Castile,—of old the land of the
warrior and troubadour, of love and chivalry, "of
battle and of song."

At Truxillo Ronald had the pleasure of again
seeing his friend the Capitan Conquesta, who
presented him to his newly-wedded bride, Donna
Maria, with whose history the reader is already
acquainted.  Ronald spent a very pleasant evening
with the cavalier, who, for his edification, fought
over again the campaigns of Buenos Ayres,
enriched with many episodes, in which he himself,
and "that stout and honourable cavalier the
General Liniers," acted prominent parts.

At Truxillo Stuart was appointed one of the
lieutenants of the light company, an alteration
which he considered no small compliment, as the
smartest fellows alone are selected for the flank
companies.  On marching past the convent walls
of Jarciejo, they were greeted by many a *viva* from
the nuns, who waved their white kerchiefs from
the grated loop-holes to the troops, who replied to
them by loud cheers, each corps making the old
walls shake as they came up in succession.
Ronald's heart was, perhaps, the saddest there among
thirty thousand men.  It was impossible to be
otherwise than sorrowful, when so near the tomb
of the high-souled and noble Catalina.  The same
evening they crossed the Tagus at Almarez, by a
pontoon bridge.  It was with mingled feelings of
pride and veneration that the three regiments of
the first brigade passed the spot, where so many
brave comrades had found a soldier's last
resting-place.  The ruined forts were now overhung with
wild weeds and grass; the wall-flower, the
honeysuckle, and ivy clung to the embrasures of fort
Napoleon, and nodded on the remnant of the old
tower of Ragusa.  In some places a fleshless bone
projecting from the sod bore witness of the hasty
interment received by the dead.  On descending
from the pass of Miravete they came in sight of
Almarez, its rocks, and woods, and winding river,
just as the broad setting sun went down in all its
glory.  A loud and exulting cheer burst from the
bonneted Highlanders, and was carried along the
column to the rear, reverberated a thousand times
among the splintered peaks and frowning craigs
of the Lina.  The bands of the 50th, the 71st, and
92nd regiments struck up the "British Grenadiers;"
and thus they passed in their glitter and
pride, with drums beating and colours flying,
above the sod that covered the breast of many a
gallant comrade.  It was a proud time for the
first brigade; and while their hearts throbbed
quicker to the "spirit-stirring" roll of the drum,
or swell of the merry bugle, they forgot not that
they trod near the tomb of those who heard their
notes no more.

Two days afterwards the troops occupied the
town of Calzada de Orepesa, in the midst of
which stood an old baronial fortalice, or square
embattled tower, which was garrisoned by a party
of Don Salvador de Zagala's guerilla corps.  Soon
after seeing his light company dismissed to their
several billets, Ronald, on passing this keep, was
surprised to hear his name eagerly and distinctly
called by some one within it; and on looking up
at its huge gloomy front, beheld a hand beckoning
to him through a narrow loop-hole, which was
cut at the top and bottom for the ejection of arrows
in the olden time.  Who could be thus imprisoned
here, and acquainted with his name, he was utterly
at a loss to conjecture; but he turned to the guard
of guerillas, who lay reposing on the earth in a
cool shady place, under the masses of wild vines
which straggled over the barbican wall, smoking
cigars and burnishing their arms, which, as well as
their dress, were of so motley a kind as to remind
Ronald of his old acquaintances in the wood of
La Nava.  All wore the red military cockade of
Spain fastened to the front of their broad hats or
slouching caps.

On inquiring who was imprisoned in the tower,
they replied a ladrone or thief, and brought to him
a guerilla, whom they dignified with the title of
*Senor el Castellano*, *i.e.* the constable or governor
of the castle, a huge-headed, broad-shouldered,
brawny, and muscular fellow, who had evidently
been a muleteer, but had resigned the whip and
bells for the musket and poniard.  He wore a pair
of French epaulets on his mule-driver's jacket;
a sash encircled his waist, bearing a powder-horn,
and several pistols and daggers; the large plume
of some staff-officer decorated his sombrero, and
his followers were most of them arrayed likewise
in the trappings of the slain.  The castellano
received Ronald with much respect, and led him
through the windings and intricacies of the ancient
tower, which, with its round wheel-stairs, arched
passages, and narrow loopholes, reminded him of
the old pile at Lochisla.  From the number of
doors which were unlocked by huge clanking keys
in their progress, Stuart was led to expect
something extraordinary, but on reaching a solitary
turret chamber, when the door was thrown open what
was his surprise to behold Captain de Mesmai,
whom he supposed to be in the castle of
Albuquerque.  He was miserably altered, and Ronald,
while he beheld him, became filled with pity and
indignation—pity for his situation, and indignation
at the ungenerous Spaniards.  His blue uniform
had been stripped of its lace, epaulets, stars, and
medals, and hung about him in tatters, showing his
skin in many places.  A guerilla on sentry at the
door had appropriated the helmet and corslet of
the 10th to himself.  De Mesmai had been plundered
of his boots, and his feet were in a miserable
state in consequence of the long marches the
guerillas had compelled him to make.  He was thin
and gaunt, and a beard of a week's growth bristled
upon his chin; but there was the same merry
devil-may-care twinkle in his eye, which showed that
his bold and buoyant heart was yet unchanged.

"*Vive la bagatelle—Hoa!  Vive la joie!*" cried
he, springing forward and clasping Ronald in his
arms with true French energy, "My dear friend,
you may judge how glad I am to see you.  I shall
now be rescued from the brutality of these base
and accursed Spanish dogs."  As this was said in
Spanish, lightning gleamed in the eyes of Castellano,
who stood by.  He grasped the hilt of his
poniard, but relinquished it as Ronald's fiery and
threatening glance fell on him.  Yet he scowled
malignantly at De Mesmai as he withdrew his hand.

"Ah, Stuart, *mon ami!* of what I have suffered
at the hands of these guerillas you can form no
idea.  I have been plundered as you see: I have
been beaten, kicked, even spat upon.  *Mon Dieu!*
such treatment for a gentleman and soldier of
France!  I have been locked up in this desolate
stone chamber for four nights and days, during
which not one morsel of food has passed my lips."

"Rascal! do you dare to treat an honourable
prisoner of war, thus?" exclaimed Ronald, turning
to the Spaniard, who bestowed a sullen look upon
him, but made no reply.

"I fully expected that before this," continued De
Mesmai, "D'Erlon would have made some effort
to effect my exchange.  The devil confound him!
I will revenge myself on him for his forgetfulness,
by being doubly sweet to madame, his dear little
countess, whose fortunate *cher ami* I have the
honour to be.  *Diable!* what would the 10th
cuirassiers,—the pets of the Parisian ladies,—the dandies
and glory of the Bouvelards, say, could they see me
in this plight?  Faith, I believe a dozen girls in the
Rue des Trois Maries would run crazy, could they
know of it.  *Diablement!* shirtless and shoeless,—and
with a coat as holy as that of Monseigneur
St. Denis, which hangs in the aisle of the old church
of Besançon.  Look at me, Monsieur Stuart;
your allies, the guerillas, have done all this.  But I
will revenge myself on D'Erlon, and garnish his
empty old head with certain ornaments which shall
be nameless,—I will, by the name of the bomb!"

"I am glad to find that your high spirits have
not deserted you, and that you are as merry a
fellow as ever.  Can it be, that those wretches have
really starved you thus?"

"For four days, my friend," said De Mesmai;
"four days and four nights, on my sacred honour!
my most earnest entreaties for bread were
disregarded.  When I used humbly to request, *Pan,
gracios Senor Castellano,—pan en el nombre de
Dios*?  This scowling coward used to point to the
village ruined by Massena's troops, and reply,—*Carajo!
Perro é ladrone!  El Español no hay
nada.  A quien Dios de mala ventura*!  'Dog
and thief! the Spaniard has none.  Ill luck to
you!'  This was my hourly answer.  *Tête-Dieu!* how
my blood has boiled up within me, and
I have longed to thrust my hand into his
ungenerous heart.  *Sacre!* with two of my gallant
10th at my back, and were I again astride of my
fleet Norman, I could soon make these rascals fly
like hares before the hound.  But may this right
hand and arm be withered and shrunken unto the
shoulder, if ever again it spares the life of a
Spaniard when my sword has once laid the dog at my
mercy.  I will revenge in red blood the countless—the
never-to-be-forgotten indignities I have
received from these infernal guerillas.  They have
been taunting me for these few days past with a
defeat which, they say, Marmont has met with at
Salamanca.  Bah!  Lord Wellington could never
beat Marmont, and I know the rogues have lied."

Ronald smiled, but made no effort to undeceive
him.  "Take my arm, De Mesmai, and permit me
to lead you from this place," said he, apprehensive
that blows would soon be exchanged between the
Gaul and Spaniard, who glared at each other with
unspeakable hatred and ferocity.

"*Vive la joie!* how I rejoiced when I beheld the
scarlet columns of the British descending by the
Navil Moral road on Calzada de Orepesa!  I knew
that my hour of deliverance was at hand."

"Come, then; march, monsieur.  Let us leave
this dismal tower!  Stand aside, worthy Senor
Castellano."

"*Satanos, Senor Officiale!* it cannot be that
you mean to release our prisoner?" asked the
guerilla, grasping his poniard again.

"Unhand your dagger, you rascally guerilla! or
I will seize you by the throat, and hurl you to the
bottom of your tower," cried Ronald, laying his
hand on his sword.

"*Il a la mine guerrier*," said De Mesmai sneeringly,
in his native language, and laughing at the
guerilla, who still hesitated; while others came
crowding into the apartment, and began to
handle the locks of their musquets.  "Would to
St. Belzebub I had a weapon to strike in with
you!  We would cut our way through these
base plebeians, as through so many children."

"Look you, senores," said Ronald; "'tis madness
of you to obstruct me.  Our soldiers are
thronging all about the village, and by a single
blast on this, I will summon a hundred men in a
moment."  As he spoke, he disengaged from his
belt the silver whistle which, as a light infantry
officer, was now part of his appointments.  By
this movement the folds of his plaid were raised,
and the golden cross of St. James glittered before
the eyes of the Spaniards, whose favour was
instantly won by the sight of the well-known Spanish
badge of military achievement.  They fell back
right and left, and the passage was free.  De
Mesmai, vowing vengeance against them, departed
with his deliverer, who soon got him attired in
other clothing, which, though somewhat motley,
was preferable to the rags he had lately worn.

Adjourning to a *taberna*, kept by an old Jewess,
they partook of an *olla podrida*,—a mess composed
of fragments of fowl, flesh, and various ingredients
stewed together; an excellent dish, when
well spiced and seasoned, and one that is considered
very substantial and nourishing by the
Spaniards.  For this, and a stoup of very sour wine,
the conscientious *patrona* charged Ronald two
duros.

After this they parted.  Ronald had to take
command of the escort of the regimental baggage,
and De Mesmai was sent to the rear-guard, with
whom some other prisoners of war marched.  The
unfortunate cuirassier, with true French volubility,
gave Stuart a profusion of thanks for his kindness,
and departed, swearing by the bomb that he would
make his escape on the first opportunity which
offered.  This threat he executed two days
afterwards, near Talavera de la Reina, when the
division was on its march; and, aided by some
Spaniards in the French interest, he gained Andalusia
in safety, and rejoined Marshal Soult's army at
Cordova.

After passing through a variety of towns and
villages, the troops of Sir Rowland Hill, on the
29th of September, beheld before them the famous
and venerable city of Toledo—of old the populous
and wealthy capital of Spain, once so celebrated
for its magnificence and glory, of which, alas! so
little now remains.  The appearance of the dark
city, illumined by the glow of the setting sun,
which bathed in purple every thing that its rays
fell upon, formed a new and agreeable object to
the brigades, as they emerged in succession from
the rich groves and cool vine-trellises that,
bending under purple grapes, had for miles and miles
overshadowed their line of march, and echoed to
the music of the thirty regimental bands.  A cheer
arose from the advanced-guard when they came in
sight of Toledo.  Situated amidst the most
delightful and romantic scenery, it crowns the
summit of a rocky eminence, around which runs its
girdle of walls and battlemented towers, circled
on three sides by the Tagus, which, reflecting the
hue of the sky, was now wandering like a river
of blood among gloomy trees, sylvan ravines, and
rocky places, adding greatly to the singular beauty
of the surrounding country.  The roofs of the
houses, which are generally about five or six
stories high, were seen shining in the sun above
the serrated lines of the ramparts; and rearing
high above all rose the enormous gothic tower
and spire of the ancient cathedral, the red sky
appearing between pinnacle and buttress, flying
arch and traceried window, giving a peculiar
appearance of lightness and richness to the huge
dark mass.  The opinion formed by the soldiers
on first viewing Toledo was changed on entering
it, and seeing the close, crooked, desolate,
and filthy alleys which branch off in every direction.

A very handsome street, where the cathedral
stands, and which leads to the great square, is, or
was, the principal one in the city, and was kept
tolerably well paved and clean.  But every thing
which meets the eye announces decay, and attests
that trade, commerce, wealth, and glory have
departed from Toledo.  The population, which
once exceeded two hundred thousand souls, has
now sunk to about one eighth of that number.

At the city gate the troops were met by a
number of the Spanish nobility and their attendants
on horseback, followed by crowds of the citizens,
who received them with loud acclamations.
The alcaldes, headed by the governor, El Medico,
a fierce guerilla chief, appeared at the archway,
attired in their robes of scarlet, and attended by
halderdiers and alguazils dressed in short black
cloaks and doublets, and wearing broad hats, from
beneath which their long hair hung down on their
jagged lace collars.  Numerous bands of
ecclesiastics, chanting as they came, and bearing
banner, cross, and smoking chalice, were likewise in
attendance.  Above their dark masses were borne
aloft the dressed-up images of the Virgin, Santa
Casilda, and San Ildefonso, of whom so many
legends are told in Toledo.  These affairs,
fluttering with rich drapery and blazing with jewels,
displayed all that singular mixture of mummery,
religion, and *effect*, which is so much studied in
the rites of the church of Rome.

In the name of King Ferdinand of Spain as his
representative, and of the alcaldes and citizens of
Toledo as their governor, El Medico welcomed
Sir Rowland Hill and the soldiers of the *fighting
division* to the ancient capital of Spain, in a speech
of wonderful length and pomposity.

As the brigades marched through the city, the
joyous acclamations of the people, the tolling of
bells, the chant of the priests, the din and uproar,
the reiterated cheers and shouts of "Long live
Ferdinand the Seventh!  Long live the brave
British nation!  *Viva, Don Rowland Hill, viva!*"
resounding on all sides, almost drowned the music of
the bands and tramp of the marching feet.  Even
Ranald-Dhu, the piper-major of the Gordon
Highlanders, with his six colleagues, had to blow their
bags up with might and main before they could
make themselves heard.  The martial, yet
wild-looking garb of the 92nd attracted great attention,
and a dense crowd of staring Spaniards squeezed
along on the flanks of the regiment, accompanying
it through all the streets.  The Highland garb
was a new sight to the citizens of Toledo, who,
although they had heard of the bare-kneed
Scottish regiments, with whose valour all Spain was
ringing, they now beheld one of them within the
walls of the city for the first time.  The
remarkable appearance of Dugald Mhor, with his snowy
tresses and blue bonnet, marching close to the
colonel's side, elicited many a shout of wonder; but
the old Gael was too much accustomed to be
distinguished thus, and cared nothing about it as he
strode on with his long claymore swinging at his
thigh, and his brass target slung on his back.
What the latter with its brass studs and steel
pike could be, it was impossible for the Spaniards
to conjecture; but they imagined it to be some
unmeaning badge of office, like the gold stick of
the Guards, and concluded that Dugald was some
very important personage among the strangers.
The windows and terraced tops of the houses were
crowded with people, and the balconies overlooking
the streets were filled with ladies, who kissed
their white hands, waved their veils, and tossed
bouquets of flowers, and even their little gloves to
the officers, crying ever and anon,—"*Long live
Sir Rowland Hill!  Sus valiente caballeros y soldados, viva!*"

The balconies were decorated with garlands of
flowers, quilts, carpets, and pieces of ancient
tapestry; the banners of noble families, of
corporations, and of Spain, waved from the windows
amid gaudy pennons and streamers of every kind.
Hurrah! it was indeed a magnificent scene of
joy, noise, and uproar.  Every man wearing the
red coat was the friend of the Spaniard; and even
the wearied little drum-boy, lugging along his
drum, was a hero and a deliverer of Spain.  That
night solemn prayers for the success of the British
arms were offered up in the great cathedral.  The
outside of its dome and spire were blazing with
myriads of variegated lamps, and the town was
illuminated with great splendour.  The lighted-up
spire presented a most singular appearance for
leagues around.  Rising from the glittering city,
it stood like a vast column of fire against the
dusky sky, causing the windings of the Tagus
to gleam afar off, from the savage defiles and
deep gorges through which it wanders.  The
soldiers were billeted on the inhabitants of the city,
within the walls; and the general with his staff
was received into the mansion of the governor,
El Medico.

The Highlanders and the left wing of an English
regiment (the 66th, I believe) were quartered
in the mouldering palace of the ancient kings of
Castile,—the Alcanzar, a building which has since
degenerated into a house of refuge for the poor.
In the evening the theatre was thronged with
officers of the division, the ladies and all
fashionable people in the town, to witness the
representation of a new piece.  It was entitled *The
Plains of Salamanca*, and composed by a young
student of Toledo in honour of the late victory
obtained by the British arms.  Between the acts
or *jornados*, the bands of the 34th regiment and
of the Highlanders occupied the orchestra, and
played a number of Spanish airs in compliment
to the audience.

A comic opera, called the *tonadilla*, closed the
amusements of the evening.  It was performed
by a single person, a young and pretty actress,
who sang, in a remarkably sweet voice, a long
story or ballad full of drollery, love-adventures,
and gallantry, drawing loud applause and
astounding *vivas* from the audience, with whom
she appeared to be a decided favourite, the stage
being strewed with the chaplets and bouquets of
flowers tossed to her by cavaliers from the boxes
and pit.

Certainly the whole performance did not
impress the British portion of the audience with a
very high opinion of the state of the Spanish
theatre.  The house was small, ill-constructed,
ill-fitted up, and ill-lighted with a few oil lamps,
the nauseous fumes of which, mixed with those
of oranges, cigars, and garlic, rendered the
atmosphere very far from pure.  The scenes were
daubs, the attire of the actors rags, and the play
destitute of talent; but the beauty of the
bright-eyed ladies in the boxes, the pretty actress with
her *tonadilla*, and the martial music in the
orchestra, were sufficient to counterbalance other
drawbacks and defects.

Sir Rowland's division lay two days in Toledo.
On the evening before they marched, Ronald
made a tour of the city to view all worth seeing.
After visiting the famous sword manufactory,
which yet flourishes as of old, he bent his steps
towards the cathedral, the doors of which (like
those of all continental churches) stood open
day and night.  It was almost dark when he
entered it, and the appearance of that vast temple,
when involved in gloom and mystery, is fully
calculated to impress the mind with holy sadness,
with pure veneration, and with awe.  The pale
light of the moon and stars, twinkling through
eighty-six tinted and traceried windows,
glimmered alternately on the scores of massive and
magnificent columns that upheld the lofty roof,
and showing them where the perspective of "the
long-drawn aisles" vanished away in darkness
and obscurity.  Six tall candles twinkled before
the dark painting on the altar, and many holy
tapers gleamed fitfully in far recesses before the
shrines and images of Eugenius, Casilda,
Ildefonso, Leocadia, and other favourite saints of
Toledo, before which many a solitary devotee
knelt on the cold pavement in earnest prayer.

The dark figures of monks and cavaliers,—the
latter in broad hats and long cloaks, were gliding
noiselessly about, adding greatly to the general
effect of the scene.  They moved like shadows:
scarcely a foot-fall was heard as they trod
lightly on the carved stones, beneath which sleep
many a king and queen of fair Castile,—many a
proud grandee and redoubtable warrior.

After endeavouring to decipher by the dim light
of a neighbouring shrine the pompous inscriptions
on the marble tombs of the great Don Alvar de
Luna, Cardinal Mendoza, and others, Ronald
turned to leave the place, his mind filled with
admiration and enthusiasm at its vastness,
grandeur, solemnity, and magnificence.  As he passed
down one of the side-aisles, indulging in a train
of these fine sentiments, they were cut short,
somewhat abruptly, by a person coming violently
against him in the dark.

"Sir, you are very unceremonious," cried
Ronald angrily, feeling for his sword.  "What do
you mean by coming against me thus rudely?"

"I believe I may, without injustice, ask the
same question of you," answered a familiar voice;
and as they advanced from between the columns
into the light of a shrine, Ronald beheld with
surprise the face of Louis Lisle.

"I did not expect you so very suddenly, and
especially here at Toledo," said he, dubious in
what manner to greet his old friend, whose
features became at once clouded by the cold and
stern expression which they had generally worn
of late, especially since the hour in which he
beheld the interview between Stuart and Catalina in
the cottage at Almarez.  "You have made
expedition in your march from Lisbon."

"I arrived here about two hours ago, with a
detachment of convalescents from Belem.  You are
aware that the division marches at sun-rise
to-morrow; so I wish to see the cathedral before
leaving Toledo," and turning coldly, he was about
to move off.

"Louis Lisle," exclaimed Ronald, suddenly
and fiercely, as he strode before and intercepted
him, while all his long pent up indignation broke
forth uncontrollably; "halt, sir!  You shall not
stir one pace from the spot until I have spoken
with you.  We must come to an explanation;
my own honour demands it.  Whence is it, that
you treat me in this studied, cold, and insolent
manner, and have ever done so since that hour
in which we met on the plain at La Nava?"

"Recall to mind your conduct on that occasion,
and I presume you are sufficiently answered,"
was the cold reply.

"Lisle—Lisle!" exclaimed Ronald bitterly,
"when children, when youths at home in our own
country among the woods of Inchavon and Lochisla,
we were constant companions and friends,—brothers
in all but blood.  Oh! why should it be
otherwise now?'

"Ask that question of yourself, sir,—ask of your
own false heart!' replied Louis, proudly and
indignantly.

"Fury!  Were you not the brother—"

"Stay, Mr. Stuart; I am not accustomed to be
addressed in these thundering tones."

"Diaoul, Mr. Lisle!  I am at a loss to
understand what you mean," exclaimed Ronald, his
wrath increasing.  "Did you not, during the
retreat into Portugal, and the advance again from
Castello Branca into Spanish Estremadura, treat
me with singular hauteur and coldness? so much
so, that it has been remarked by the whole
regiment,—ay, even the brigade?'"

"I acknowledge that *I have*, Mr. Stuart," said
Lisle, drawing himself up to his full height, and
setting his bonnet haughtily on one side.

"Death and fury, Louis!" exclaimed Stuart,
regardless of awakening a thousand echoes; "and
for what has this been the cause?"

"I repeat to you again—search your own heart;
the cause lies there."

"Blasted be my heart if I ask it of any but
yourself!" replied Ronald, his hot Highland blood
fully roused.  "As I hope to live, but *one*
consideration—*one* remembrance alone stays my hand
from seeking the usual satisfaction ay, even in
this cathedral.  Ha! surely this marked change
of conduct and manner towards an old companion
and brother-soldier, cannot be in consequence of
Sir Allan Lisle's obtaining the peerage, so long
dormant?"

"Ronald Stuart," exclaimed the other, with a
scornful smile, "you might know me better than
to imagine I could be swayed by ideas so very
childish and extremely silly.  I have been
forbearing towards you as mortal man could be; but
permit me now to tell you, that you, Ronald Stuart,
have behaved most cruelly, faithlessly, and basely
to one, whose name my lips shall never utter in
your presence and hearing."

"Basely!  Louis—Louis—"

"Well do you know whom I mean!" interrupted
the other with increasing vehemence; "she
is inseparably connected with the memory of your
native place.  Her you have falsely forgotten,
and why, Heaven only knows,—forming attachments
here among Spaniards and strangers, while
her heart has never wandered from you."

"Lisle! what is this you tell me now?"

"Truth, and the feelings of an enraged yet
sorrowing heart! for I have long mourned in secret
your fickleness and inconstancy—as God is my
hearer, Ronald, I have!  I deemed that your
hearts were entwined together in such wise that
nought but death could sever them; but I have
been mistaken.  I believe the predictions of old
Cavers, our nurse, when she warned the poor girl
to beware of you, are now fulfilled.  Your mother
was one of the Monteiths of Cairntowis, and the
perfidy of the race appears to be renewed in
yourself,—even at this late period."

"You speak strangely, Lisle, and in riddles.
You cannot mean to insult me openly, by this
allusion to my mother's honourable and ancient
family?  I can forget and forgive—"

"Pshaw!  I supposed so."

"How, Mr. Lisle!" exclaimed Ronald, with
renewed fury.  "You cannot suppose for an instant
that I am—heavens! must I name it—a coward?"

"No, Stuart; a coward never came of your race,
as my ancestors have often known to their cost.
The cross which at this moment glitters on your
breast reminds me that you would not shrink from
any earthly danger; therefore do not suppose that
my indignation will lead me to be unjust."

"Your sister—Alice; of her I would speak."

"Never let her name pass your lips!"
exclaimed the other, as if the very sound of it
roused him to frenzy.  "You have destroyed her, and
almost broken her too sensitive too gentle and
too confiding heart; but I will revenge her, Stuart,
by the powers of Heaven I will! and you shall
hear from me by day-break.  For this night, I
defy and spit upon you!"

He rushed from the cathedral, leaving Ronald
transfixed with rage and amazement.

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   END OF VOL. \II.

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   LONDON:
   Maurice and Co., Howford Buildings, Fenchurch Street.

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