THE ROMANCE OF WAR, VOLUME 3 (continued 5)

"Sacre!" said he, as he concluded, "Sauve qui peut was the word; but not one of the fierce sans culottes escaped!"

Donna Virginia said she would excuse the major his ungenerous triumph, as she believed these were the greatest victories the French had ever won in Spain. The duke frowned; the count would have done so too, had gallantry permitted him; the little major looked big, and twirled up his moustaches; while his subs, like well-bred cavaliers, laughed as in duty bound at the young lady's retort. On Lisle inquiring for Donna Olivia, Virginia blushed, and tears glittered in her dark eyes; while her father replied coldly that she had retired to a convent in Galicia, but did not add that it was to the monasterio de los Arrepentidas, he had so ruthlessly consigned her.

As soon as dinner was over, Virginia withdrew, and cigars, wine, and gaming-tables were introduced. The duke and his intended son-in-law sat down to chess, at which they were as great enthusiasts as the celebrated Don Pedro Carrera[*] himself, while the Frenchmen took to trictrac, and quickly became absorbed in all the mystery of tour à bas—tour d'une, &c. &c.; but Lisle, who had neither money nor inclination to gamble, begged to be excused, and withdrew, receiving as he retired a keen glance from the count, to whom he replied by another of contempt, for rivals soon discover each other. Louis again returned to his solitary promenade on the lower works of the fortress, and continued to pace among the cannon and pyramids of shot which lined the stockades, until he heard his name called, and by a voice which he should have known amongst ten thousand. "Luiz! Don Luiz!"

[*] A Spaniard, who in 1617 published a treatise on the origin of chess, carrying its antiquity back to the era of the Trojan war.

"Virginia!" cried he; and springing to the grated loop at the base of the keep, he kissed the little hand she extended towards him.

"Retire now, senor," said she.

"Ah, why so soon?" said Louis. "But you must not senor me,—it sounds so distant."

"Mi querida, then."

"Ah! that is better. Dear Virginia!" and he kissed her hand again. It was indeed such a hand as one would never tire of holding. So tiny, and so delicate,—and set off by the handsome black bracelet round the slender wrist. "Why would you leave me so soon, Virginia?" said he, gazing on her beautiful Spanish features. "It is long,—very long since we last met!"

"Only a few months, Luiz; and yet the time does appear very long. But we may be observed; these sharp-sighted French soldados keep guard on every nook and corner, and my father may hear that I have met you."

"He is busy over the chess-board; and no Frenchman would spoil pleasure such as ours."

"I must indeed leave you. Alas! I am not so free here as at pleasant Aranjuez."

"Hear me, before you go,—but one word, Virginia?"

"Well, then,—one only."

"Who is this Don Felix,—this Count of Aranjuez?"

"You have spoken a dozen, and broken your covenant."

"Who is he?"

"One of whom we had better beware. He is no more a Count than the tambour passing yonder with his drum on his back; but he is as false at heart as ever was Rodriguez, or the Counts of Carrion."

"He is very attentive to you."

"He is very troublesome,—Santa Maria! a perfect nuisance. But my father favours him, and as his wrath is terrible, I am forced to dissemble. But, ah! retire now, Don Luiz, I beseech you!"

Don Luiz was too much enraptured and bewildered to obey; and putting in his arm, he encircled and drew her close to the bars of the loop-hole, through which he pressed his glowing lip to her own. She yielded to him passively.

"O senor!"

"Senor again! Ah! these infernal bars, Virginia," he exclaimed. But releasing herself from his grasp, she glided away with the lightness of a fairy, and he saw her no more that night. But there was something so delightful in being near Virginia, and living under the same roof with her, that his feelings underwent an entire change before night closed in, and he looked less anxiously towards the distant positions of Lord Wellington's army on the Pyrenees, and the aspect of his prison appeared less dismal and desolate. The presence of Virginia cast a halo over every thing; and new feelings of love, hope, and pleasure began to dawn in his heart.

They met daily, almost hourly indeed, because in the narrow compass of a fortress or barrack, people encounter each other at every turn and corner; and some weeks passed away with a pleasure to Louis, which nothing seemed to cloud but the chance that Marshal Soult might order the prisoners in the château to be conveyed farther into the interior of the country, as vague rumours were afloat that the allied army was about to descend from the mountains and invade France. It was only from the casual observations of the French officers, at whose mess he often dined, that Lisle was able to gather any political intelligence, but that something warlike was expected appeared evident. The garrison of the château was strengthened by a company of chasseurs, additional works were erected, and scarcely a day passed without French troops being seen on the march southward; and it was only when Lisle beheld the clouds of dust and flash of steel appearing on the distant roads, that he felt himself indeed a prisoner, and all the disagreeable nature of his situation came vividly upon his mind. But again he thought of Virginia, and remembered that a single smile or a soft word from her were well worth all the gloss and glitter of parade, the enthusiasm, the excitement, and the glory of warfare.

Being the only officer among the prisoners, he always dined with the duke, or at the temporary mess of the French. He preferred the former, to be near Virginia, upon whom the ci-devant count kept a jealous eye,—the penetration of which it required all the young lady's art to baffle; while, at the same time, it required all her politeness and good-nature to enable her to submit to his attentions, which were now becoming, as she often declared to Louis, 'quite odious and insufferable,' Her cavalier longed to horsewhip the Spanish traitor for his presumption, and on more than one occasion would have given him a morning's airing,—in other words, have 'called him out,' but for fear of an exposé, which he would rather avoid.

Besides, he had a deeper plot laid,—and another object in view. He knew that Virginia dreaded the duke for his stern austerity, as much as he himself despised him for his treason and falsehood to his native country; and he hoped by overcoming her scruples, and prevailing upon her to consent to a secret marriage, at once to free her from the insolent perseverance of Don Felix Joaquin and the authority of her father. He had resolved to await some change of circumstances, such as the removal of the whole garrison further into France, or its being strengthened by the arrival of more troops, as the revengeful dispositions of the duke and Joaquin were to be dreaded while he remained so much at their mercy as his situation of prisoner within the narrow limits of the châtelet placed him. The near approach of the allies had rendered the extension of his parole impossible; but he soon learned that farther delay with time or circumstances was fraught with danger, and that if he did not at once secure the hand of Virginia, he might lose it for ever.

With a countenance indicative of much discomposure, and eyes red with weeping, she appeared one evening at the grated loop-hole, where they usually had a meeting alone after dusk. She had just come from an interview with the duke, who being resolved to carry to the utmost the authority assumed by Spanish papas, had abruptly commanded her to come to a final arrangement with the mercenary condé, or prepare to join her sister in the monasterio. Louis, who had been long wavering in his plans, was at once decided by this information. He prevailed upon her to consent to an elopement, and have that ceremony performed which would place her beyond the power of her father and the views of Don Felix.

To taking such a step, a Spanish damsel has always felt less scruples than a British, and with abundance of tears, fears, agitation, &c., the donna gave her consent, and Lisle retired to arrange matters. The greatest difficulty was the confounded parole of honour, which tied him to the château.

In this dilemma he applied to his rival, the count, requesting him to procure leave for him to visit Saint Palais for a day or two, pledging himself solemnly to return within the given time. The Spaniard, although detesting Louis Lisle in his heart, offered readily to befriend him on this occasion—having two ends in view; first, to remove Lisle from the presence of Virginia; and secondly to do so effectually, by sending him to his long home by means of some of those continental assassins, whose daggers are ever at the service of the highest bidder. Through his interest the duke granted the leave, and long before break of day Louis and the donna were clear of the fortress,—the duke's written order satisfying the scruples of the sub commanding the barrier-guard. At a village-inn hard by they procured horses, and took the road direct for Cambo, where they hoped to find the curé of the village. The wily count had previously despatched two of his own servants, Valencians,—rogues who would have sold their chance of salvation for a maravedi,—to post themselves in ambush on the road leading to Saint Palais, whither he believed Lisle to have gone, with orders to shoot him dead the moment he appeared.

So full of joy was Don Felix at the expected revenge, that he found it impossible to retire to rest, and continued to pace his chamber all night. With the utmost exultation he heard the noise of his intended victim's departure in the morning, while it was yet dark, and long ere gun-fire. As the challenge of the sentinels and clang of the closing gate echoed through the silent fortress the satisfaction of the Spaniard increased, and he already imagined himself the master of Virginia's broad lands on the Nive, and her rich estates in Valentia, la Hermosa; and long he watched the road to Saint Palais, in hopes of seeing the death-shot gleam through the darkness.

An hour elapsed, and he felt certain that the victim must have fallen into the deadly snare; but his anxiety to behold the completion of his plot would not permit him to delay an instant longer. Ordering a soldier of the guard to saddle his horse, he stuck his pistols into his girdle, drew his hat over his eyes, and muffling himself in his mantle, he rode forth,—feeling the exhilarating influence of a gallop in the breezy morning air infinitely agreeable, after a night of feverish excitement and drinking in his close chamber. As he approached the spot where he had placed the assassins in ambush, he hid his face in his mantle, and rode more slowly forward, with a beating heart, scanning the roadway in expectation of seeing the corse of his rival stretched upon it. But he looked in vain! The winding road between the thickets was clear, and appeared so for many a mile beyond. Enraged to a pitch of madness at the idea of his escape, he dashed the rowels into his horse and galloped on; when lo! two carbines flashed from adjacent thickets,—one on each side of the way. A sudden exclamation of rage and agony escaped from him; his horse reared up wildly, and pierced by a two-ounce bullet the worthy Count of Aranjuez and Colmenare de Orija, knight of Calatrava and the Stole, &c. &c. fell to the earth, and almost instantly expired.

While Don Felix fell thus into his own snare, his more fortunate rival, with Donna Virginia, galloped along the bank of the Nive, pursuing the road to Cambo, where they arrived about sunrise, and sought without delay the house, or rather the cottage, of the village pastor. There fresh obstacles arose, as the reverend gentleman pretended to have many conscientious scruples about wedding a Catholic lady to a Briton and a heretic. But a few gold Napoleons overcame his qualms, and he consented to perform the important ceremony, with a description of which it is needless to tire the reader. Louis had no ordinary task to accomplish, in soothing the hesitation and terrors of Virginia, who was—

"Crimsoned with shame, with terror mute,

Dreading alike escape, pursuit;

Till love, victorious o'er alarms,

Hid fears and blushes in his arms."

There were no witnesses to the ceremony, so important to Louis and his bride, save a stout villager and his wife, who declared that Donna Virginia's black veil and velvet mantilla were contrary to all rule and established custom, as white drapery, pure as the virgin snow, and a coronet of white flowers and orange-buds, formed the bridal garb in France. But there was no help for it, and the donna became the Honourable Mrs. Lisle, in her high comb, braided hair, and long black veil, which swept the ground. Louis now remembered his father, whose existence he had almost forgotten in the excitement of the elopement; but he well knew that his indulgent relative would pardon the hasty union, considering the circumstances which urged it, and he longed for the time when he should present to him, and to his sister Alice, his beautiful Virginia, who, although the daughter of a traitor, was descended from one of the noblest houses in Old Castile.

The bride was too much agitated to return immediately to the château, and to encounter the wrath of that terrible old don her father, and so they remained that night at the cottage of the pastor of Cambo.

Early next morning Louis was aroused from the couch of his bride by the sound of French drums, near the village. He heard them rattling away at la bats de la rétraite (the retreat); then succeeded the "long roll," a sound which never fails to rouse a soldier. The noise of distant firing was heard, and he sprung from the side of the blushing and trembling Virginia, and threw open the casement. It was a beautiful morning: the sun shone brightly, and the birds chirped merrily; the dew was gleaming like silver from the branches of the leafless trees; the sky was clear and blue, and the bold outlines of the Pyrenees were seen stretching far away in the distance towards Passages and Bayonne. Dense columns of French infantry were crowding in confusion along the road which led to the bridge of Cambo, while the sharp-shooters of the advancing allies, hovering on their rear and flanks, kept up an irregular but destructive fire, which their chasseurs, who lined every wall and hedge, endeavoured to return.

Lisle saw that there was no time to be lost, if he would return to the château. The discomfited French were pouring across the bridge of Cambo, where a detachment of sapeurs were busy at work, undermining one of the piers. The main body of the allies were already in sight. The green and scarlet uniforms of the light infantry were seen at intervals, appearing and disappearing as they leaped from bush to hedge, and from hedge to wall, firing, and then lying flat on their faces to reload, and avoid the fire of the enemy. Mingled with other sharp-shooters he beheld the light company of his own regiment, and knew their tall green and black plumes as they floated on the morning wind. Wistfully did Lisle look towards them, and it was with no ordinary feelings of chagrin that he beheld his friends so near, and yet found himself under the disagreeable necessity of returning to the château, where he should be exposed to the insults and vengeance of an intractable old Spaniard, to whom he now stood in the relation of son-in-law.

Virginia, who was excessively terrified by the noise of the firing, which was now heard around Cambo on all sides, and not less alarmed at the rage and disorder which prevailed among the retreating French, with tears and caresses besought Louis to remain unseen in the little cottage of the curate, until the allies gained possession of the village. But that resolve was impossible. His word was pledged to her father, and he must return—even at the risk of certain death. He prepared without delay to cross the river. On entering the stable to caparison their horses, he found that the worthy pastor had decamped in the night, taking them with him, and every thing of any value,—leaving only a stubborn old mule. Venting a bitter malediction on the thief, Lisle tied a halter to the long-eared steed, and led him forth into the yard, just as the gate was dashed open by the French, whose rear-guard had commenced plundering and destroying the houses, to leave no shelter to the allies, who were now become invaders of France.

On beholding his red uniform and plumed bonnet, two charged him with their bayonets, which he had barely time to parry with a hay-fork that he hurriedly snatched up. They called upon him to surrender, and he found himself in imminent peril. Virginia was crying aloud from the interior of the cottage for aid, which it was impossible to yield her, as he was hemmed against the bayonets of a dozen soldiers. From this disagreeable predicament he was relieved by the interference of an officer, who exclaiming, "Redressez vos armes, messieurs!" struck down their bayonets with his sabre, and compelled them to retire. He then asked Louis sternly how he came there? Louis informed him, as briefly and as well as his imperfect knowledge of French would permit, that he was a prisoner of war on his parole of honour, and was only desirous of crossing the Nive with the French forces. He prayed the Frenchman, as an officer and gentilhomme, to rescue the lady, who was now crying aloud for assistance. The officer sheathed his sabre, and rushing into the cottage among the soldiers who thronged it, returned in a minute with Virginia, who was all tears and agitation, leaning on his right arm, while, with true French politeness, he carried his weather-beaten cocked-hat under his left. He relieved poor Lisle from a state of dreadful suspense, by placing her under his protection. She was nearly terrified out of her senses, and that she might not be subjected to farther insult, the officer ordered a caporal bréveté with a file of soldiers, to attend them as a guard.

Under their friendly escort, Louis at once prepared to leave the village, which was now enveloped in flames and smoke, and involved in tumult and uproar, while the bullets of the British riflemen came whistling every second among the crowded streets and blazing rafters. Placing Virginia upon the mule, which the honest curate had left behind him as worthless, Louis led it by the bridle, and pressing into the ranks of the French crossed the bridge, which was no sooner cleared, than the sapeurs sprung the mine and it was reduced to ruins in a moment. The firing now ceased, the rapid and swollen state of the Nive rendering pursuit impossible, and Louis, as he looked back towards Cambo, beheld his own brigade leisurely entering it,—marching along the highway, in close column of subdivisions; but they were soon hidden in the smoke of the village, which was enveloping in a white cloud the whole southern bank of the river. Continuing to lead by the bridle the mule upon which Virginia rode, Louis returned to the château, where all was bustle and warlike preparation. The works were bristling with bayonets, the guns were all shotted, and the lighted matches smoked beside them. The chasseurs and the two companies of the 105th were under arms, and the little major was bustling up and down, ordering, directing, and quarrelling with all and each; while his commandant, the duke, looked sullenly around him, scanning through a telescope the advance of the allies.

The death of the count was as yet unknown, the assassins, on discovering their mistake, having plundered and concealed the body; after which they absconded, and were no more heard of for a time. Such was the posture of affairs when Lisle entered the court of the place, where cannon-shot, bomb-shells, and casks of ammunition lay strewed about in confusion. He had scarcely reached the spot, when he became aware that a scene of high dramatic interest was about to be enacted. He was rudely seized by two soldiers with their swords drawn, while the duke at the same moment violently dragged his daughter from her saddle, ere Lisle could raise a hand to free her from his grasp. So bitterly was he enraged, that the stern reproaches he hurled against the affrighted and sinking Virginia, and the fierce menaces against Louis, were for some time totally incoherent.

"False picaro! I will have your heart thrown to my dogs for this!" he exclaimed, gazing at Louis with an eye of vindictive fury. "And as for you, most gracios senora, you shall join your sister in the monasterio at Galicia."

"Stay, my lord!" interposed Lisle, becoming violently excited; "you somewhat over-rate your authority in this matter. She is no longer under your control, and so unhand her instantly! Come to me, Virginia! You are my wedded wife, and no human power can separate us now." The reply of the fierce Spaniard was a deadly thrust at Louis with his sword. Some fatal work would have ensued, had not the little major struck aside the blade, and desired him to remember that the laws of war must be respected, and that Monsieur Lisle was a prisoner of France. Louis's blood boiled within him, while poor Virginia covered her face with her hands, and shrieked aloud to behold her husband and father glaring at each other with eyes of fire, until by the command of the latter she was borne away to her chamber in the keep.

"Demonios! major, how did you dare to stay my hand?" asked he, turning furiously to the Frenchman.

"Parbleu, monsieur le duc!"

"Do you suppose I will ever permit the honour of my long-descended house to be stained by the pretensions of a base and degenerate fool? a nameless Briton, par Diez!"

"Proud Spaniard!" replied Louis, resentment glowing in his cheek and kindling in his eye; "my ancestry were not less splendid than your own; but mine is the degradation, in allying myself with a traitor like you, who has abandoned his king and country to serve under the banner of a savage invader! But the virtues of such a woman as Virginia might redeem your whole race from perdition."

"Parbleu!" said the major again.

"And recollect, gentlemen and soldiers," continued Lisle, "that if I am maltreated by any within these walls, you may all smart for it yet. See you, sirs, the allies are close at hand, driving the boasting soldiers of the Emperor before them as the wind drives the mist, and the whole of Gascony will be theirs before another sun sets."

"Présomption et vanité!" said the major, turning up his eyes and shrugging his shoulder. "Aha! Les François sont au fait du métier de la guerre de terre!" And many officers of the 105th, who crowded round, laughed heartily, and observed, that probably in a week or two the allies would be flying for shelter across the Pyrenees. Lisle blessed his stars that the garrison was not composed entirely of Spaniards; for, assuredly, the duke would have slain him on the spot but for the firm interference of the French officers. He was, however, put under close arrest, and a sentinel placed over him. The place in which he was confined was a projecting turret of the outworks, and there he was left to his own reflections, which were none of the most agreeable. He found himself acting the part of a romantic hero, but certainly little to his own satisfaction. In the same turret was confined a genuine Teague, a soldier of the 88th regiment, who had been placed in durance for two desperate attempts to escape when the allies appeared in sight. Mister Paddy Mulroony was seated very composedly in a corner, smoking a black pipe about an inch long, while in his cunning but good-natured face was seen that droll curl of the mouth and keen twinkling of the eye, which are so decidedly Irish.

"Och, tearin' murder! this is a poor case indeed," said he, springing up to attention. "Bad luck to the whole boiling of them! and is it a gintlemin like yer honner that they are afther traitin' this way? Never mind, sir; the allies—the hand iv Saint Pater be over thim!—are in sight, and may be they will be stormin' this rookery some fine morning, whin, wid the blessin' ov God, we'll see every throat in it cut."

Lisle was boiling with rage at the treatment to which he was subjected; but that was a slight affair when compared with his anxiety for Virginia, who was now entirely at the mercy of her father, of whose ferocity and remorseless disposition he had seen several examples. For some time he remained immersed in thought, while he strode hastily backward and forward in the narrow compass of their prison; and it was not until Teague's maledictions became very vehement, that Lisle found he had a companion in misfortune.

"Well, friend; and what brought you here?"

"Eight French spalpeens, sir, and my fortine or misfortine, and that little baste ov a major, bad luck to him! I was nigh out ov their claws this very mornin', clever and clane; but they clapped me up here, the ill-mannered bog-trotters! And sure, it 'ud vex ould Moses himself to see the rid coats across the river yonder, and yet be caged up here like a rat in a trap."

"To what regiment do you belong?"

"The Connaught Rangers, yer honner,—the boys that gave Phillipon, the ould scrawdon, such a fright at Badajoz."

"A brave corps. And your name?"

"Pat Mulroony. I come from one side of Dublin, where my father has a beautiful estate, wid deer-parks such as ye never saw on the longest day's march. And though it is meself that siz it, there was not a smarter fellow than me in the whole division, from right to left; no, not one, yer honner! If you plaze, sir, we may yet give the French—bad cess to them! the slip; and by the mortal! I'll stand by yer honner like steel, for shure I'd do it for love if for nothin' else; for the Scots and Irish were one man's childer in Noah's day. In ould ancient forren times, the blessed Saint Patrick himself was a Scotsman, until his bad-mannered countrymen, in a fit of unkindness, cut off his head, and he swam over wid it under his arm to Donaghadee, and became a good Irishman. Often I have heard ould Father O'Rafferty at Dunleary tell us of that, when I used to take him home from Mother Macnoggin's wid a dhrop in his eye. He was the broth of a boy, that ould O'Rafferty, and a riglar devil among the girls, for all that he was a praste; and whin the craytur was in, it's little he'd think of giving the best man in his flock a palthog on the ear. But perhaps it's inthrudin' on yer honner I am?" Louis, though pleased with the fellow's humour, was not in a talking mood. "May my tongue be blisthered if I spake any more to ye, or bother ye in the midst of yer throubles!" said Pat in conclusion.

Anxiety and fear for poor Virginia plunged Lisle into deep despondency, and not all the attempts of honest Mulroony could wean him from his melancholy reflections. He could scarcely be in any other than an unpleasant mood, as it was rather annoying for a newly-married man to spend the time immediately succeeding his nuptial-day in a stone turret, measuring eight feet by six. Two or three days passed away, and Louis found considerable satisfaction in the knowledge that Virginia was yet near him,—that the walls of the fortress still contained her. He had acquainted his humble friend with his story, and Paddy became more eager than before to serve him; and vowed, for his sake, to face "either man or devil, if he had only an opportunity, bad luck to it!" The place in which they were confined was an échauguette, or small turret, built on an acute angle of a bastion close to the gate of the fortress, and from the loop-holes Louis and his friend kept by turns a constant watch, so that it was impossible for Virginia to be carried off without their knowledge; and Lisle would probably have become frantic had he seen her departure, which he hourly expected would take place. One night Mulroony was on sentry at the loop-hole, watching the gateway, while Louis slept on the floor. The night was intensely dark,—"one on which ye couldn't see yer nose fornenst ye," as Mulroony himself said.

"Blistheration and blackness be on the day I ever saw ye!" soliloquized he, as he scanned the castle and its defences. "Shure it ud vex Mister Job, let alone a Connaught Ranger, to be caged up here shaking at ivery puff of wind, like a dog in a wet sack. Bad cess to them, the spalpeens ov blue blazes! Och! how long is this to last at all at all."

"Senor,—Luiz!" said a soft voice, close beside the loop-hole.

"Hubbuboo, tearin' murther! who are you, misthress?" said Mulroony, starting back in dismay as a dark figure, muffled in a hooded mantilla, appeared at the loop-hole. "Is it me you're looking for, darlint? Well thin, honey, it's just right you are, for there is not a smarter man in all the Connaught Rangers than Pat Mulroony,—damn the one from right to left! Ye've jist come to the right shop, honey; for, at wake or wedding who was the jewil ov the young ladies like Mr. Mulroony?"

"O madre Maria!" said poor Virginia, shrinking back in astonishment and grief. Understanding that Louis occupied this turret, she had resolved to pay him a visit, favoured by the darkness of the night and the inattention of her father and the duenna, who were both at that time engaged,—the former at the chess-board with the major, and the latter with her mass-book and brandy-bottle. Trembling with affection, fear, and the chill night-wind, which blew roughly on her delicate frame, she sought the place of Lisle's confinement; and great was her dismay at Mulroony's reply, which, although she did not understand, she well knew to be the voice of a stranger: but she implored him in Spanish, por amor de San Juan de Dios, to say where Don Luiz was confined.

"Don't be in such a flustheration, honey," said Mulroony, putting out his arms to embrace her. The lady shrunk back indignantly, and it now occurred to the egotistical gentleman to awaken Louis, thinking the visit might be intended for him.

"I say, sir! here's something wantin' to spake wid ye. I can't tell what it says, becase it spakes like naythur Frinchman nor devil, God bless us!" Louis sprung up.

"Virginia!" said he, and gave her his hand through the loop-hole. But she made no reply, save pressing it to her throbbing breast: her heart was too full to permit her to utter any thing.

"Virginia! have you any new distress to tell me of?"

"O Luiz!" said she, sobbing as if her heart would burst, "we meet for the last time."

"How!" he exclaimed in distress and alarm, encircling her with his arm as if to keep her with him. "Who will dare to separate us now?"

"My father. To-morrow I go from this; but whether to Paris or Galicia, I know not. O Luiz! his hatred is terrible. But for the intercession of the major, you would have been in eternity by this time." The challenge of a sentinel at the other angle of the bastion, and the tread of a foot, now alarmed them.

"Retire, Virginia, for a moment; 'tis only the patrol, or some affair of that sort. I would not have you discovered here for the world." She had only time to shrink into a corner, and conceal herself behind the carriage of a piece of ordnance, when a man approached the turret. It was the corporal of the guard, who usually came every night before the drums beat, to see that the prisoners were all right. The door was of massive oak, studded with iron nails, and while the corporal was undoing its ponderous fastenings, a sudden thought occurred to Lisle. "Be on the alert, Mulroony," said he; "I will now endeavour to escape, or die in the attempt!"

"Right, yer honner! I'm yer man. Lave me to dale wid that spalpeen ov a corporal, and by the holy Saint Peter! I won't lave a whole bone in his skin."

"Hush! let us only compel him to give up the watchword, and then we will gag and bind him hard and fast. I need keep faith no longer with those who doubt my parole."

The unsuspecting Frenchman opened the door and looked in, merely to assure himself that the prisoners were in their cage. "Come in, corporal dear," said Mulroony, grasping him by the throat, and dragging him into the chamber.

"Sacre—diable!" growled the astonished Gaul, struggling with his athletic adversary, who tripped up his heels, and in a twinkling laid him on his back, and pressed his knees upon his breast.

"Och, honey! don't be in such a divel ov a flustheration! Give but the smallest cry in life, and it's yer neck I'll be dhrawin' like a pullet's!"

"Merci, monsieur! Ah, miséricorde!" gasped the half-strangled soldier.

"Come, monsieur caporal!" said Louis fiercely; "surrender the countersign, or expect such treatment as desperate men may yield you. Mulroony, take your hand from his throat. Answer, Frenchman, at your peril!"

"MARENGO!" replied the other, and commenced immediately to bellow aloud for his comrades; but his cries were drowned in the singing of the wind and noise of the Nive, which rushed over a steep cascade below the bastion.

"Och, murther! it's all over now; he'll bring the whole pack on us wid his schreechin',—the devil dhraw the tongue out ov ye! Tunder an' oons! Thurf and blazes! what's this he is after now?"

Paddy soon discovered that, and to his cost. The corporal, on getting one hand free, drew his bayonet, and plunged it into the arm of his antagonist, who no sooner found himself wounded, than he broke into a tremendous storm of passion. Thundering out one of those formidable curses which come so glibly from an Irish tongue, he wrested the weapon from the Frenchman, and buried it twice in his breast. All this passed in less than a minute, and the Frenchman expired without a groan.

"Mulroony, have you killed him?" asked Louis, considerably excited.

"Deed have I, sir,—the murderin' villyan!" answered the other composedly.

"Poor fellow! I had no intention that he should be slain. He was but doing his duty."

"A purty thing, to make sich a moan for a spalpeen iv a Frencher," answered the Irishman testily.

"Our lives are now indeed forfeited, if we cannot escape. Virginia!" He went from the turret to where she sat in a sort of stupor with cold and terror, and in a few words informed her that they must escape now, or be for ever lost.

"Blue blazes, sir!" bawled Paddy from the turret door; "is it the wimmen ye're afther? Is this a time to go making love? Musha! musha! sure there's always mischief where they are."

"Quick now, Mulroony,—follow us!" said Louis, who encircled Virginia with his arm to support her. "We have not a moment to lose. Heaven grant me firmness now!"

Armed with the bayonet, and grumbling curses at the blood which was flowing freely from his arm, Mulroony followed Lisle and the lady to the barrier-gate, where two sentries were posted. The night was dark and black, and a dismal wind howled between the works and embrasures. The sentinels kept within their turrets, and every thing seemed favourable to their escape.

"Qui vive?" challenged one fellow at the gate. Louis hesitated a moment,—and the British reply "Friend," almost escaped his lips.

"Belzebub! Qui va là?" cried the gate-ward, again striking the butt of his firelock on the sentry-box floor.

"Make some answer, or we are undone," whispered Virginia, as she clung in terror to the arm of Louis, who, still advancing towards the gate, replied in a feigned voice,

"Caporal, hors de la garde."

"Aha!" replied the sentinel, coming from his box. "Avance, qui a l'ordre."

"MARENGO," replied Louis.

"Passe, mon ami," replied the soldier, returning to his box. His suspicions were lulled, and they gained the gate without further molestation, the darkness of the night rendering their figures so indistinct, that it was impossible for the sentinels to discover them. The barrier was composed of strong planks, through which a little wicket was cut.

"How fortunate!" said Lisle; "the passage is open, and the draw-bridge down. We are free, and shall soon be safe among the British troops."

"Huisht, plaze yer honner; its hearin' us they'll be! Be aisy. Help out the lady: will you lane on my arm too, mem?"

"Senor?" She did not understand him.

An exclamation in Spanish caused them all to start. "Dios mio! my father!" shrieked Virginia, as an officer outside the gate sprung forward and drove his sword through the body of the brave Mulroony, who fell mortally wounded, while the guard and sentries came running from all quarters to the spot. Louis found himself again a prisoner, and when on the very brink of freedom.

"Bring a lantern!" exclaimed the duke, whom Lisle's evil genius had brought to the gate, but on what errand he never discovered, "Bring a light, and let us see what soldier of the Emperor is base enough to assist prisoners to escape. I surely heard French spoken by some one."

The drummer of the guard held a lantern to Lisle's face, and his scarlet coat, when it appeared in the light, caused every brow to lour. The countenance of the duke turned pale when he beheld him. His eyes glistened like those of a serpent, as he gazed alternately upon him and Virginia, who in an agony of horror sunk down at his feet, close to the body of the gallant Irishman, whose features were now becoming rigid in death. He had expired almost immediately after receiving the thrust of the Spaniard's sword.

At that moment a soldier came hastily forward, saying that the corporal of the guard lay murdered in the turret from which the prisoners had escaped, and a volley of threats and execrations broke from the men of the 105th, who crowded round.

"Aha!" said the Gascon major, pressing forward. "Is it thus you slay the soldiers of the Emperor? You shall smart for this night's work, Monsieur Ribaud!"

"Do you dare to apply such an epithet to me?" replied Lisle furiously, spurning the Gascon with his foot, and struggling to free his arms, which were tightly grasped by the soldiers.

"Bind up his eyes, some of ye, and let him be instantly shot! Give not a moment for prayer or supplication. We will have life for life,—blood for blood!" cried the Spaniard.

"Base renegade! I scorn your malice, and defy you to terrify me," cried Louis, regardless of all consequences, and from despair gathering a courage which gained him the admiration of the French, though it won from them no mercy. The little major was foaming with exasperation at the insult he had received, and made no longer any intercessions. The private soldiers, who were enraged at the death of their comrade, eyed him likewise in malignant silence. Virginia was borne away senseless, and Lisle gazed sadly after her, until he was startled by the sharp words of command given coolly by a Serjeant to six soldiers, who were picked out to become his executioners. For a moment his heart grew sick and sunk within him, when he thought of his home and of those brave comrades who were only a few miles distant. But he scorned to ask mercy from the duke, from the father of Virginia, who by the light of a huge lantern (which cast a dull flickering light on the dark groups of armed soldiers, and still darker walls of the fortress) watched the preparations made by the firing-party with steady gravity and coolness.

"Chargez vos armes!" cried the serjeant. "Prenez la cartouche! Amorcez! L'arme à gauche!" &c. and the noise of the steel ramrods ringing in the barrels as the cartridges were rammed home, fell like a knell upon the ears of Louis. He certainly grew pale, but his heart never quailed as he looked upon the loading of the musquets. He resolved to die with honour to his character and the garb he wore. At that moment, so critical to him, a French cavalry officer, on a panting horse, dashed up to the gate at full gallop, inquiring with all the hurry and importance of an aide-de-camp for the commandant of the place.

"Monsieur le Duc," said he, "the allies are in motion: their troops have begun to cross the Nive, and Marshal Soult desires that you will be on the alert, and defend the ford, under the guns of this château, to the last." Without waiting for an answer, he wheeled round his horse and galloped out of sight in a moment. The clatter of the hoofs had scarcely died away, before two of the sentinels, posted on the bastion over-looking the ford, fired their musquets. A volley replied, lighting up the whole fortress for an instant, and all became hurry and confusion. Louis was thrust into his old place of confinement,—the castle-gates were secured,—the bridge was drawn up, and in five minutes every man was at his post. From the inmost recesses of his heart Lisle thanked Heaven for his narrow escape; and while in the close compass of his prison he listened to the booming cannon and musquetry, which shook the ancient fabric to its foundations, he earnestly prayed that the attack would be successful; and he well knew, by the hearty British cheers which from time to time came ringing on the wind, even above the noise of the conflict, that his comrades were carrying all before them.

CHAPTER XI.

PASSAGE OF THE NIVE.

"The bayonet pierces, and the sabre cleaves,

And human lives are lavished everywhere,

As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves,

When the stript forest bows to the bleak air."

Byron.

An order having been issued for a general attack on the enemy's position at the Nive on the morning of the 9th of December, an hour before day-break the allied army got under arms, in high spirits and glee at the prospect of fighting monsieur on his own ground, and prosecuting their victorious career still farther into France. But as it is not my purpose to give an account of that brilliant affair, I will confine myself to the adventures of our friends. In Stuart's quarter, or billet, a miserable and half-ruined cottage, the officers who were to be under his command on a certain duty, sat smoking cigars and carousing on the common wine of the country, until the signal "to arms" was given. The party consisted of his own subs,—of Blacier and a Spanish captain, Castronuno, a tall and sombre cavalier, lank, lean, and bony, and who might very well have passed for the knight of La Mancha. Their supper consisted of tough ration carne (beef), broiled over the fire on ramrods, and eaten without salt,—an article which was always so scarce, that a duro would have been given for a tea-spoonful. This poor fare Blacier improved by swallowing an ample mess of chopped cabbage and vinegar, and by puffing assiduously at his meerschaum. After having stuffed himself until belt and button strained almost to starting, he deposited in his havresack a quantity of spare bread and meat for his breakfast. Castronuno, who had been observing his gluttony with quiet wonder, recommended him to eat his breakfast then, as it would save trouble on the morrow. This advice Stuart enforced by adding, that he might be knocked on the head before day broke, and perhaps all his good provender would go to swell some other man's paunch.

"Mein Gott!" groaned the German, "vat you say is right. I veel eat vile I can. Hagel! mein Herr, you hab gibben de soond advice." And he commenced a fresh attack on the viands, and quickly transferred them from the havresack to his distended stomach. He had scarcely finished, and let out four holes in his sword-belt, before the sharp Celtic visage of Serjeant Macrone was seen peering through the clouds of tobacco-smoke, as he informed Stuart, "Tat ta lads were a' standin' to their airms on the plain-stanes."

It was then an hour before day-break, and the sky was dark and gloomy. Stuart noiselessly paraded his troops,—the "light-bobs," Blacier's riflemen, and Castronuno's Spaniards, and moved up the banks of the stream to execute the duty assigned to him. This was to carry by storm the castle of the Nive, that the troops in its immediate neighbourhood might be enabled to cross by the ford, the passage of which was swept by the guns of the fortress. The day preceding the projected assault, Ronald and Blacier made a reconnoissance of the place, and found that there was no other method but to ford the river below the neighbouring cascade and carrying the outer defences by storm, trusting to Heaven and their own hands for the rest, as the tall keep might be defended against musquetry for an age, unless a piece of cannon was brought to bear upon it.

At the time mentioned, an hour before dawn, the whole of the troops in and about Cambo were under arms, and the signal to cross was to be the storming of the château. The companies destined to effect this dangerous piece of service, marched up the bank of the Nive a few miles, and favoured by the intense darkness, halted immediately opposite to the scene of action among some olive-trees, which were, however, bare and leafless. There a consultation was held, and it was determined to proceed forthwith. All appeared still within the château. The sentries on the bastions and palisades were seen passing and repassing the embrasures, but the noise of their tread was drowned in the rush of the cascade, which poured furiously over a ledge of rock a few yards above the fort and plunged into a deep chasm, from which a constant cloud of spray arose. Desiring Evan Bean Iverach to keep close by his side, Ronald, with a section of twelve picked Highlanders carrying three stout ladders, led the way. Under the command of Evan Macpherson, the rest of the company followed close upon his heels, with their bayonets pointing forward, and every man's hand on the lock of his musquet. Old Blacier, who was as brave as a lion notwithstanding all his oddities, prepared to mount the works by escalade a little further up the stream, where his riflemen were in imminent danger of being drenched by the spray of the waterfall. Two companies of the 18th Spanish corps of the line were to form a reserve, under the command of Don Alfonso de Castronuno.

"Now then, lads," said Ronald, while his heart leaped and his breath came thick and close, for the moment was an exciting one, "keep up your locks from the stream, and look well to your priming,—though we must trust most to butt and bayonet."

"Qui va là?" challenged a sentinel.

"You'll soon find that out, my boy," cried Stuart, brandishing his sword. "Forward! Gordon Highlanders. Hurrah!"

"Demeurez là!" cried the Gaul in dismay, while he fired his piece in concert with three or four others. A Highlander fell in the stream wounded, and was sucked into the linn, where he perished instantly. His comrades let fly a rattling volley, and pressed boldly forward. The water rose nearly to their waists, but the Celts had an advantage over their comrades in trowsers. Raising the thick tartan folds of their kilts, they crossed the river, keeping all their clothing, the hose excepted, perfectly dry.

The Nive, at the place where they crossed, was several yards wide, and the current, on the surface of which some pieces of thin ice floated, was intensely cold; but the hardy Highlanders pressed onward, grasping each other by the hand, and crossed safely, but not without several unlooked-for delays. The bed of the river was pebbly, slippery as glass, and full of holes, which caused them to stumble every moment, and a scaling-ladder was nearly carried away by the stream. The rocks were steep and precipitous, rising to the height of several yards abruptly from the water. The ladders were planted among the pebbles, and when one point of the rock was gained, they had to draw them up before they could reach another, and so arrive at the foot of the sloping bastion which was now bristling with bayonets. By the time the escalade approached the outworks, every soldier in the château was at his post, and the cannon had begun to belch their iron contents, which, however, passed harmlessly over the heads of the assailants. The fierce northern blood of the latter was now roused in good earnest, and their natural courage seemed only to receive a fresh stimulus from the din of war around them.

Accustomed from infancy to climb like squirrels, the Scotsmen clambered up the rocks, grasping weeds and tufts of grass,—finding assistance and support where other men would have found none; and in less space of time than I take to record it, they were all at the base of the bastion.

"Up and on! Forward, my brave Highland hearts!" cried Ronald Stuart, springing recklessly up the perilous ladder, waving his sword and feeling in his mind the wild—almost mad, sensations of chivalry and desperation, which no man can imagine save one who has led a forlorn hope. "Death or glory! Hurrah! the place is our own!" At that moment a twenty-four pounder was run through the embrasure and discharged above his head. It was so close, that the air of the passing ball almost stunned him; he felt the hot glow of the red fire on his cheek, and the deadly missile whistled over his bonnet, and boomed away into the darkness. Several fire-balls were tossed over the works by the French. These burned with astonishing brilliancy and splendour wherever they alighted,—even in the middle of water, where they roared, sputtered and hissed like devils, but would not be quenched until they burned completely away.

Those which fell upon the rocks, served to reveal the storming-party to the deadly aim of the defenders, and at the same time added to the singularity, the picturesque horror of the scene, by the alternate glares of red, blue, and green light which they shed upon the castled rock, the bristling bastions, the rushing river, the gleaming arms, and the bronzed features of men, whose hearts the excitement of the moment had turned to iron. Unluckily, the first ladder planted against the breast-work broke, and the men fell heavily down.

Enraged at this discomfiture, Stuart leaped up the rocks again, though drenched with water,—but blows had been already interchanged. A second ladder had been planted by Macpherson, who leaped into an embrasure at the very moment a cannon was discharged through it, and he narrowly escaped being blown to pieces. With charged bayonets the resolute Highlanders poured in after him in that headlong manner which was never yet withstood, and a fierce conflict ensued, foot to foot, and hand to hand. From their lack of muscular power, the French are ever at disadvantage in such strife; and although many of the assailants were forced over the parapet and slain, the outworks were entirely captured in a few minutes. The Germans under old Blacier, who led them on with his sabre in one hand and his meerschaum in the other, effected an entrance at one angle, while the Spanish officer commanding the reserve bravely carried another, finding it impossible to restrain his soldiers, whose triumphant shout of "Santiago y España! Viva!" struck the French with dismay. Finding themselves attacked successfully on three points, they became distracted, and were driven tumultuously from bastion and palisade; after which their own cannon were wheeled round on them. Nevertheless they fought with the chivalrous courage of old France. The top of the keep was lined with chasseurs, who madly continued to pour down an indiscriminate fire of musquetry on friends and foes, and the barbican was full of blood and corpses in five minutes. Brilliant fire-balls were also cast over, and the glare thrown by them on the bloody earth, the flashing weapons and powder-blackened visages of the combatants, produced an effect never to be forgotten by a beholder.

Poor Blacier, who had been shot through the lungs at the moment he entered the court, hurled his sabre among the enemy and crawled away into a corner, where he smoked composedly as he bled to death,—or at least appeared to smoke. The Gascon major of the 105th was encountered by Alfonso de Castronuno, who at the second blow laid him dead at his feet, but almost at the same moment the Spaniard himself expired: a shot had passed through his heart. Remembering Louis Lisle, and animated by a bitter hatred against all who wore the same garb, the duke, with his cloak rolled round his left arm and accoutred with sword and dagger, leaped among the Highlanders, calling on the French to follow; but no man obeyed. He would have been instantly bayoneted but for Ronald, who was the first man he encountered, and who ordered the soldiers to leave them hand to hand. In avoiding the duke's stiletto, Stuart stumbled over the corse of Castronuno, and would have been instantly dispatched, but for the crossed bayonets of a dozen soldiers.

"Save him!" cried Stuart. "Macpherson! Evan Bean! take him alive."

"Haud!" cried Iverach sternly. "Stand, ye black son o' the devil! Back—back; or my bayonet's through ye in a twinkling." But the furious Spaniard spat upon him in the bitterness of his fury, and the next moment his blood was reeking on Evan's weapon. He fell prone to the earth, and even while he lay choking in blood he continued to curse and spit at the conquerors, until the Spaniards destroyed him by trampling him to death. The moment he fell the French surrendered, after being hemmed into a corner, and finding it impossible to maintain the conflict longer. On both sides the slaughter was very great, and upwards of two hundred lay killed in the court or barbican. The chasseurs on the top of the keep did not yield, until threatened that the place would be blown up; on which they laid down their arms, and joined the other prisoners, who formed a sullen band, ranked in a corner and guarded by the Spaniards, for whom they showed their scorn and contempt so openly, that three or four were killed.

Many of the captives were mere boys, poor conscripts, who only a month before had been compelled to resign the shovel for the musquet; and some were the old and high-spirited soldiers of the Emperor,—stern fellows, with bronzed and scarred cheeks, rough moustaches, and mouths black with the cartridges they had bitten. They looked around them with an air of haughty pride, defiance, and nonchalance, which only a Frenchman can assume under such circumstances. When daylight dawned, Blacier was found lying dead. When last seen alive, he was sitting philosophically watching the pool formed by his blood; and thus he expired with his pipe in his mouth, an inveterate smoker to the last.

"Keep order among the prisoners!" cried Stuart, on the occasion of a brawl ensuing between them and the Spaniards. "Your fellows must restrain their national animosity,—just now, at least," added he firmly, to the Spanish lieutenant commanding the escort.

"Bueno! but how am I to do it? See you, senor," said the Spaniard, "how the Frenchmen spit upon and upbraid them, as if they were so many Moors or Portuguese? Virgin del Pilar! I would hew them down to ribbons, but for the contrary order of senor the great Capitan Général,—the Duke of Vittoria."[*]

[*] Wellington's Spanish title.

"Stay, senor," said Stuart; "one should treat with generosity a conquered enemy."

"On my honour, capitan," replied the other, "old Cuesta would have had them all swimming down the Nive, had he commanded here."

"Holloa, Stuart!" cried Macpherson; "come this way! Here is another uproar. Never mind the prisoners; one might as well sing psalms to a dead horse, as speak of generosity to a Spaniard."

Their attention was arrested by the report of a musquet; and hurrying to where the sound came from, they found several Highlanders engaged in beating down the door of a turret. This operation Iverach shortened, by applying his musquet and blowing the lock to pieces,—a perilous exploit for the inmate, who narrowly escaped being shot through the body. Evan next applied his shoulder to the shattered barrier, and burst it open.

"Maister Lisle o' the Inch-house! Hurrah! How happy I am to see you. Od, this dings a'! he exclaimed in breathless astonishment, as Lisle issued from his place of confinement.

"Ha! Louis," cried Stuart, grasping his hand in wonder. "Is it possible that they treat you in this unworthy manner, caging you up in a place like a dog-kennel? I thought you were enjoying yourself on parole in France?"

"No, faith! I have been locked up like a jailbird in Pampeluna, and other infernal places, ever since that unlucky affair at Fuente Duenna; and yet, after all, I do not regret it."

"Indeed!"

"Why, you have yet to learn. But where is Virginia,—Virginia de Alba?"

"How on earth should I know, Louis? 'Tis an odd question; but her father's blood, the fierce old villain! is yet red on Evan's bayonet."

"What is this you tell me?" said Lisle frowning. "Was the duke slain?"

"He fell in the assault," replied Macpherson, "and thus escaped the axe, the garrote, or a volley through the back,—all of which he so well merited."

"Stay, Macpherson!" interrupted Lisle, so angrily that the other was indignant. "I will not hear him spoken of thus. He has gone to his last account,—so rail against him no more. Truly, he deserves little pity from me, for I have suffered much at his hands; but that you will all know another time. Virginia! Virginia! for Heaven's sake tell me something about her!"

"I never heard aught of the lady since we were last at Aranjuez; but I hope the ci-devant abbess is well, notwithstanding the demerits of her fierce and treacherous father. Your hand again, Louis! My dear fellow, I congratulate you on your freedom. All are well at Inchavon, and—but mean time duty must be attended to." And, ignorant of the cause of Lisle's deep anxiety, he turned away, crying, "Holloa, Macrone! Where is that confounded old humbug loitering? In the spirit-store, likely. Ah! get the company under arms, and let the piper blow the gathering."

"I trust in Heaven that the tower yet contains her!" exclaimed Lisle. "I will find her, or be guilty of some desperate thing. Follow me, Evan, and some of you, my true old comrades! The keep is full of Spaniards and Germans, who are wont to be unscrupulous enough, when heated by the fury of an assault. Forward, Highlanders! We will ransack the prison-house, and a score of dollars shall be his who finds the lady!"

He snatched up the sword from the dead hand of Castronuno, and, followed by a few soldiers, rushed up the stairs of the keep, and sought at once the boudoir or apartment of Virginia, whom he found in the act of surrendering her bracelets and rings to a cazadore, who had terrified her to extremity by his oaths and menaces. The Spaniard was a powerful Asturian, but Louis grasped him by his black cross-belts, and hurled him down stairs like an infant, for rage supplied him with unusual strength, Virginia clasped him in her arms, and hung weeping and sobbing bitterly; while Ronald Stuart and his lieutenant—Evan Macpherson, who had followed Louis up stairs, stood for a few moments at the door, unwilling to intrude upon them.

As she hung thus drooping on Lisle's breast, although less gaily attired than when at the Aranjuez ball, Virginia yet looked surpassingly beautiful. She had no veil or comb, and the massive braids of her dark-brown hair hung free and loose over her pale cheek and delicate blue-veined neck, of which rather more than usual was displayed, in consequence of the disorder of her dress. Her attendant had been preparing her for bed at the moment the assault took place; and want of sleep, together with the terror and anxiety under which she had been labouring, rendered her paler than usual. Tears were rolling fast from the long lashes which shaded her light hazel eyes, but they only made her more bewitching.

An exclamation of surprise, which Ronald found it impossible to restrain, caused her to start and blush deeply, for her arms, feet, and ankles were bare, and her graceful attire was all in disorder: but she threw her veil and mantilla instantly around her.

"There are none here but friends, Virginia," said Louis, to reassure her; and he introduced her to Ronald and Macpherson as "the Honourable Mrs. Lisle."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Stuart. "How fortunate—how happy! I have a thousand pardons to ask, Louis, for treating your anxiety so lightly. Allow me to congratulate you—"

"And me too, Lisle, old fellow!" added Macpherson. "I wish you all joy, but I cannot pay my respects to the donna, because my Spanish, which is none of the best, always turns into Gaelic, and never comes glibly to my tongue until after sunset."

"O senores!" said the lady, "such a night of horrors this has been! I heard all the dreadful conflict above, beneath, and around me,—and, Holy Mother Mary! I shall never forget it. I looked but once from my window, and the scene of the night assault will never be effaced from my remembrance. O 'tis a fearful thing to see men fighting for death and life, and destroying each other like wild beasts or demons! But where is the duke? Have not you seen him, senor cavaliers? Oh, search for my father, and bring him instantly to me, that I may be assured of his safety."

"Alas! senora," answered Stuart, "I regret—I fear we cannot gratify you in this matter—"

"Holy Virgin!" she faltered. "Caballero, you mean not to tell me that my father is no more,—that your soldados have slain him?" She spoke in a voice of exquisite tenderness, and laid her fair hand on Ronald's arm, grasping it tightly, and he gazed on her with some confusion. Her bright eyes were full of fire, and seemed to search his heart for an answer, while her half-parted lips displayed a fair set of brilliant teeth. "Noble Oficial! tell me if my father lives," she added, bursting into tears.

"I fear the duke has escaped," replied Ronald, unwilling to afflict her by revealing the truth; for, notwithstanding the duke's sternness and severity, she had always tenderly loved him. "He must have escaped, senora, as I have not seen him since the place was stormed. He must have fled."

"No, cavalier. My father would perish rather than fly," said the young lady indignantly. "He comes of a race whose blood has fallen on a thousand fields, but never from the veins of a coward."

"Pardon, gracios senora; I meant not to say that he had fled, but only retreated," said Stuart. "But pray excuse me for a moment, as my presence is required below." He retired with the intention of ordering the body of the ignoble duke to be looked after, that it might not shock the eyes of his daughter; but the soldiers of Alfonso de Castronuno had before-hand disposed of it in a summary manner. In the intensity of their hatred, they tied a few cannon-shot to the body and tossed it into the chasm at the bottom of the cascade, where it could never be found again. The troops engaged in the capture of the château remained there for the ensuing day, during the whole of which firing was heard along the line of the Nive. With their usual success the allies crossed the river in triumph, and drove the troops of Soult before them pell-mell.

After his horse had been shot under him, Fassifern fought on foot, and four times led his victorious Highlanders on to the charge, sword in hand, and four times successively the stubborn masses of the enemy gave way before them. But the Celtic impetuosity was not to be resisted. Their black plumes were seen dashing on through bayonets, blood, and smoke, as they hurled the columns of the French before them as clouds are driven by the gale. Every regiment distinguished itself, and many charged desperately with the bayonet.

Even old Dugald Mhor, animated by the gallant example of his master, forgot his white hairs and failing powers, and distinguished himself by his prowess, and by the address with which he unhorsed and captured a French staff-officer.

But as this volume is drawing to a close, the historical part of it must be abridged as much as possible.

On the 27th of February, 1814, the allies gained the battle of Orthez, a victory which was succeeded by the passages of the Adour and Garonne, and by the most signal defeat of the Duke of Dalmatia before Toulouse, on Easter Sunday, the 10th of April.

Many of the British regiments suffered severely. The gallant 61st were reduced to scarcely fifty men, I believe; and the Gordon Highlanders were also roughly handled by the enemy. Stuart was wounded, and he lost many of the friends who survived the fatal battles of the Pyrenees, and among them was Evan Iverach, the faithful and affectionate young fellow who had become a soldier for his sake, abandoning his home, his sweetheart, and his aged father, and who had followed and served him with the love of a younger brother, the respect of a vassal, and the disinterested devotion of a Highlander.

The light companies had been thrown forward as skirmishers, and Stuart's fell into a sort of ambush formed by the enemy, who poured a destructive fire upon them. Lieutenant Evan Macpherson was killed, and a ball passed through the breast of Iverach, which laid him prostrate on the turf. He had previously been wounded in the left knee, but he had refused to retire from the field, protesting that he would fight while he had breath left in his body. Thrown into disorder by this unexpected volley, the company retired, and Ronald, as he staggered about confused by the concussion of a rifle-ball which grazed his left temple, heard the deep moans of pain which were uttered by poor Iverach. Regardless of the French fire he rushed forward, and raising him in his arms, bore him off in the face of the foe, who suspended their firing on witnessing the action, which gained Ronald the love and esteem of every soldier who beheld it. Two Highlanders soon relieved him of his burden, and carried Iverach, who was enduring great agony, to a place which was secure from the bullets of the enemy's riflemen. He was laid at the back of a stone wall, which formed the boundary of a meadow or field. The first thing he cried for was water; and Stuart, filling his canteen in a muddy ditch, the only place from which he could procure it, held it to the hot quivering lips of the sufferer, who, after he had drunk greedily, expressed much more concern to behold blood trickling from Ronald's temple, than for the probable issue of his own wound. Whenever he spoke, he was almost suffocated with his own blood; and ceasing the attempt, he leaned his head against the wall, and while tears trickled over his face, gazed with an eye of intense affection upon his master, who knelt down beside him, and as gently as a mother would have done, unclasped his accoutrements and opened his coat, that he might breathe more freely.

Stuart, the assistant-surgeon, who had been sitting opportunely on the other side of the wall, ready for action, with his case of instruments displayed around him like a pedlar's wares, whispered in Ronald's ear with most medical composure, "It is all over with him, poor fellow! Rejoin your company before Cameron misses you: Iverach will die in ten minutes."

"I cannot leave him," said Stuart, deeply distressed. "Oh, cannot you do something for him? I would yield all I possess on earth to save Evan's life!"

"He is bleeding more internally than outwardly, and were I to attempt to stop the discharge of blood from his mouth and breast, he would be instantly suffocated."

"D—nation, Dick!" said Ronald angrily, "and will you leave him to die?"

"He will die without my assistance: on my honour, I can do nothing! He is past my skill, and I have other work on hand. See how the wounded are pouring down from the height! I must indeed leave you."

He snatched up his box, and ran to where four soldiers of the 61st had laid down Coghlan, their eccentric old colonel, who had received a shot which entered the top of his left epaulet and came out at his right side. But he, too, was past Stuart's skill, and died instantly.

Evan heard not what passed, but learned the doctor's opinion from the sad expression of his master's face.

"O sir! and sae he has gien me ower," said he, speaking in a broken and difficult manner, while the blood continued to gurgle incessantly in his throat. He held out his hand, and Ronald, taking it in his own, knelt down beside him. "And sae, sir, he has gien me ower. I thocht as muckle, but he micht, he micht hae tried to save me. But na, na! it's a' ower noo. I ken my weird mon a' be fulfilled; I kent I wad fa' the day. There was an unco sooghin' in my heart a' the last nicht. Something seemed aye whispering in my lug it was the last I was doomed to see. Oich, ay! it will be sair news to auld Donald Iverach, whan he hears that Evan Bean—his Evan with the fair hair, Evan that he was aye sae fond o', has de'ed in the land o' the foe and the stranger. But, O dear maister Ronald! ye'll tell him,—ye'll tell a' the folk in the bonnie glen, whan ye gang hame to Miss Alice, that I died as became me,—with my bonnet on my brow, and my face to the enemy."

"I will, Evan, I will," groaned Ronald.

"I have always dune my duty, sir, to you and to my cuintry."

"You have, Evan,—bravely and nobly."

"Thanks, sir, thanks! Ye'll say that Evan, the son of Iverach, never flinched in the dark hour o' trial and danger!" said he, while his eyes lighted up with Highland enthusiasm. "Tell them this,—that the auld folk may remember me in their prayers, when the coronach is sung for me in the clachan at Lochisla."

"My poor Evan, you will exhaust yourself."

"My time is short noo," he replied in a moaning voice; "but, oh! this will be sad news to my auld faither. My death will bring sorrow and dule on his grey hairs. And then there is Jessie—Jessie Cavers o' the Inch-house, at Avonside!" He began to sob, and his tears mingled with his blood. He sunk back exhausted, and lay still for a short time, during which he muttered to himself,—"The gowden braid—her lock o' hair! An ill omen,—cut in twa by a sabre at Orthez. O Jessie! my sweet wee love, maun we never meet mair?"

"Maister Ronald!" said he, in a quivering voice, "see that Jessie gets a' my back pay. There's three months o't gane, come the neist Lord's-day. Let her put it to her tocher,—'twill help her to get anither love. I release her frae the troth she gaed to me. Alake—" And his voice died away in a gentle wail.

"Evan, this money,—hear me; this pay you speak of,—shall I not give it to your father, rather than this Jessie Cavers, who may, perhaps, have forgotten you?"

"She never will forget me!" cried Iverach, with an impetuosity which caused the gore to rush from his wound and mouth fearfully. "If I thocht she had proved fause to her plichted aith, I wad haunt her till her dyin' day. Yird an' stane wadna' haud me! But my faither,—gie him this, sir; for he wad fling siller into the loch, as if it burnt his hand."

He undid from his bonnet the regimental badge which fastened the black cockade and upright green feather. It was a wreath of thistles, encircling a Sphynx, and the word Egypt stamped in brass. "Gie—gie him this: he will wear it for my sake,—the sake o' his Evan Bean. And now, Heaven bless ye, Maister Ronald, and grant that ye may live lang and happily after I'm gane to dust, and the grass o' many a year has grown and withered ower me. Ye've been a kind maister,—a gude friend,—and a gude officer to me. God bless Colonel Cameron, and every officer and private man in the regiment! I thocht to have been spared to gang hame wi' ye a' to auld Scotland; but that hath been ordained itherways. But—but—"

His voice failed him again, and his eyes grew dull and glassy, while his face became overspread with the livid hue of death, and assumed that expression which is terrible to look upon. On a sudden he started, and seemed to gaze intently on some distant object.

"Evan!" said Stuart in astonishment. "What see you, that you gaze thus?"

"My faither the piper," said he in a breathless voice, while he grasped Ronald convulsively with one hand, and with the other pointed to some vision of his imagination. "'Tis my faither!" he added, in a voice thrilling with death and delight. "He comes to find me in the deid-thraw! Yonder, yonder he comes,—doon by the dyke-side. His pipes a' braw wi' ribbons frae the drones, and his tartan plaid waving behind him!"

Startled by the energy of the dying soldier, Ronald looked in the direction pointed out. No such appearance was visible to him; but there lay the broad bosom of the Garonne, refulgent with the noon-day sun,—sweeping in watery majesty past the towers and spires of Toulouse, and disappearing among the deep forests, which were resounding with the clang of the battle that was waged hotly and fiercely before the walls of the city.

"Evan," said he, mournfully, "I see not the figure you mention."

But there was no reply: the Highlander had ceased to exist. The blood oozed slowly and heavily from his wound, and his distended and glassy eyes were yet fixed with the glare of death on the scene of the distant battle-field.

An exclamation of deep anguish burst from Ronald Stuart on beholding the breathless body of his humble but gallant friend, which presented a woful spectacle, being drenched in blood from the chin to the shoe-buckle. He tied a handkerchief over the face, and disposing the body in its plaid, he hewed down an olive-tree with his sword and with the branches covered it up, that it might be unmolested by the peasantry and death-hunters, until he could return and commit it to the earth.

This done, he tied up his own wound, which till then he had forgotten, and again sought the field, where flashing steel and eddying smoke bore token of the strife. Toulouse was the last, and one of the most keenly contested battles of the Peninsular war; and it was very generally believed by the allied army, that Soult, when it took place, was aware that peace had been concluded between Great Britain and France.

* * * * *

Here the author must, for the present, take leave of the courteous reader, who has accompanied him thus far through innumerable long marches and dangerous exploits, and halt for a time on the field of Toulouse. Should he be encouraged to publish the further adventures of his kilted heroes, he will not be tardy in obeying the call; for full many a weary march in France and Flanders—many a wet bivouac—many a desperate duty and perilous adventure, have to be described "before the last grand charge took place in that victory," where the crown of France was lost and won, when Europe was freed from the iron grasp of Napoleon, and where (at least in the great war in which they had so signally distinguished themselves) the "occupation of the Gordon Highlanders" concluded.

THE END.

LONDON: Printed by Maurice and Co., Howford-buildings, Fenchurch sheet.