THE ROMANCE OF WAR, VOLUME 2 (continued 2)

* * * * *

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.

CHAPTER IV.

THE OUT-PICQUET.

"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.

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.

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

"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.

CHAPTER V.

THE FLAG OF TRUCE.

"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.

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.

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

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.

CHAPTER VI.

ALMAREZ.

"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.

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.

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

"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.

CHAPTER VII.

D'ESTOUVILLE.

"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.

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.

CHAPTER VIII.

CATALINA.

"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.

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.