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

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 54920
   :PG.Title: The Romance of War, Volume 3 (of 3)
   :PG.Released: 2017-06-15
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: James Grant
   :DC.Title: The Romance of War, Volume 3 (of 3)
              or, The Highlanders in Spain
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1846
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

============================
THE ROMANCE OF WAR, VOLUME 3
============================

.. clearpage::

.. pgheader::

.. container:: titlepage center white-space-pre-line

   .. vspace:: 4

   .. class:: xx-large bold

      THE ROMANCE OF WAR:

   .. class:: medium

      OR,

   .. class:: x-large

      THE HIGHLANDERS IN SPAIN

   .. vspace:: 2

   .. class:: medium

      BY

   .. class:: large

      JAMES GRANT, ESQ.

   .. class:: small

      *Late 62nd Regiment.*

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

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

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. class:: medium

      IN THREE VOLUMES.

   .. class:: medium

      VOL. III.

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. class:: medium

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

   .. vspace:: 4

.. container:: verso center white-space-pre-line

   .. class:: small

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

   .. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large bold

   CONTENTS

.. class:: noindent small

   Chapter

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

I.  `Hostilities—A Love Letter`_
II.  `The Ball.—The Bull-Fight.—An Adventure`_
III.  `The Skirmish of Fuente Duenna.  The Leaguer of Alba de Tormes`_
IV.  `Angus Mackie`_
V.  `An Adventure.  A Highland Legend`_
VI.  `A Battle`_
VII.  `An Out-Picquet Adventure`_
VIII.  `Pass of Maya.—Pyrenees`_
IX.  `The Block-house.  Mina`_
X.  `The Châtelet`_
XI.  `Passage of the Nive`_





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOSTILITIES—A LOVE LETTER`:

.. class:: center x-large bold

   THE ROMANCE OF WAR.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER I.

.. class:: center medium bold

   HOSTILITIES—A LOVE LETTER.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Were not my right hand fetter'd by the thought,
   |  That slaying thee were but a double guilt
   |  In which to steep my soul, no bridegroom ever
   |  Stepp'd forth to trip a measure with his bride
   |  More joyfully than I, young man, would rush
   |  To meet thy challenge."
   |                    *Macduff's Cross*, p. 26.

.. vspace:: 2

Boiling with rage at Louis's insulting defiance,
Ronald returned to his quarters in the Alcanzar,
determined at day-break to summon him forth, to fight
or apologize.  He often repeated the words, "Her
heart has never wandered from you."  Ah! if this
should indeed be the case, and that Alice loved him
after all!  But from Louis, his honour demanded
a full explanation and ample apology, either of
which he feared the proud spirit of the other would
never stoop to grant.  Yet, to level a deadly weapon
against the brother of Alice,—against him to whom
he had been a constant friend and companion in
childhood and maturer youth, and perhaps by a
single shot to destroy him, the hopes and the peace
of his amiable father and sister, he felt that should
this happen, he never could forgive himself.  But
there was no alternative: it was death or dishonour.

Two ways lay before him,—to fight or not to fight;
and his sense of injured honour made him, without
hesitation, choose the first, and he waited in no
ordinary anxiety for the dawn, when Alister Macdonald,
who was absent on duty, would return to the
quarters of the regiment.

Next morning, when the grey daylight was
beginning faintly to show the dark courts and gloomy
arcades of the Alcanzar, he sprung from his couch,
which had been nothing else than his cloak laid on
the polished floor tiles; and undergoing a hasty
toilette, he was about to set forth in search of
Macdonald, when Lieutenant Chisholm, one of the
officers, entered.

"What! up already, Stuart?" said he; "I hope
you are not on any duty?"

"No.  Why?"

"Because Lisle has asked me to wait upon you."

"Upon *me*?" asked Ronald, with a frown of
surprise.  "Upon me, Chisholm?"

"Yes: of course you will remember what occurred
in the cathedral last night?"

"How could I ever forget?  Mr. Lisle, under its
roof, insulted me most grossly," replied Ronald,
his lips growing white with anger.  "I was just
about to seek Macdonald to give him a message,
but Mr. Lisle has anticipated me."

"For Heaven's sake, Stuart, let us endeavour to
settle this matter amicably!  Think of the remorse
which an honourable survivor must always feel.  A
hundred men slain in action are nothing to one life
lost in a duel."

"Address these words to your principal,—they
are lost on me; but you are an excellent fellow,
Chisholm!"

"It is long since we have had an affair of this sort
among us, and Cameron is quite averse to this mode
of settling disputes."

"I shall not consult his opinion, or that of any
other man, in defence of my own honour," said
Ronald haughtily.

"As you please," replied the other, with an air
of pique.  "Lisle and you have long been on
very distant terms, and the officers have always
predicted that the matter would terminate in this way."

"Curse their impertinent curiosity!  And so Lisle
calls me out in consequence of the high words we
exchanged in the cathedral last night?"

"That is one reason—the least one, I believe.  He
mentioned that his sister, Miss Lisle—"

"Stay, Chisholm!  I will hear no more of this,"
cried Stuart; then suddenly changing his mind added,
"Ah! well; his sister—Miss Alice Lisle.  Go on."

"Faith, Stuart, you seem confoundedly confused.
Do settle this matter in peace.  Lisle has told me
the story, in confidence, and I think you have been
to blame,—indeed you have.  Send Lisle an apology,
for I assure you he is boiling with passion, and will
not yield a hair's breadth."

"Chisholm, then how in the devil's name can you
suppose that I will?" exclaimed Ronald, his anger
getting the better of his confusion.  "Never, by
Heaven! never will I apologize when I have suffered
the indignity.  He has challenged me, and fate must
now decide.  I will meet him."

"Well, then, time presses; we march at sunrise.
Who is your friend?"

"Alister Macdonald, if he has returned; if not,
I shall have Logan."

"Macdonald returned about midnight with some
stragglers from Torrijos, and will not relish being
disturbed so early."

"Never mind that; an hour's sleep less or more
is scarcely to be considered when lives are in
jeopardy.  Where is the meeting place?"

"The bridge of Toledo.  You will barely be in
time.  Six is the hour; it wants fifteen minutes of it
by my watch."

"Well, you may leave me now."

Knowing it was needless to say any more about a
reconciliation Chisholm departed; and Ronald, after
buckling on his sword and dirk, stood for a few
minutes holding his bonnet in his hand irresolutely,
while he sunk into a reverie of deep and bitter
reflections, of what his affectionate old sire and
faithful dependants at Lochisla would feel should he die
by the hand of Lisle, whose very name they regarded
with so much jealousy and distrust.  He also thought
of Alice and Lord Lisle, what their sentiments would
be if the reverse was the case, and the one lost a
dear brother—the other a beloved son, who was the
only heir and hope of an ancient house, and the
successor to its title.  He remembered also the words of
Louis.  Could it be that Alice might yet love him?
But no; that was impossible!  He threw his cloak
around him, and rushed from the chamber to seek
that of Macdonald, who was ready to attend him in
a moment.  Suddenly remembering that he had no
pistols, he urned into an apartment occupied by
Major Campbell, to request the loan of his.

It was a spacious and splendid room, with a
ceiling twenty feet in height.  A colonnade supported
the roof, the carved beams of which stretched across
from the gilded cornices on each side.  The ceiling
and walls were covered with frescoes, but the
plaster and the once bright and gorgeous gilding were
miserably faded and dilapidated by time and neglect.
Rolled in his cloak, and coiled up in a corner
of this vast and empty hall, the bulky frame of
Campbell lay on the tessellated pavement, and no
doubt he found it a bed somewhat cold and hard.
His pillow was formed by his long Andrea and
favourite *rung*, with a plaid rolled round them.  His
dirk and steel Highland pistols lay on one side of
him, and an empty pigskin on the other.  Very
desolate indeed he appeared, lying in a corner of that
huge apartment, which was totally destitute of
furniture.  Ronald shook him by the shoulder.

"If that is you, Serjeant Macildhui," said he,
speaking very crossly beneath the cape of his cloak,
"I must beg leave to inform you, that I have nothing
to do now with No. 1 company.  I am done with all
that sort of dirty work, as you will see by the last
Gazette.  Apply to Mr. Kennedy, and take yourself
off till the drum beats.  I wish the infernal Horse
Guards would order six halting days every week,
instead of only Sunday and Thursday."

"Look up, major!  'Tis I—Stuart."

"What is the matter?" cried the other, bolting
up, and showing that the contents of the borachio
skin were operating still on his brain; "what is the
matter now?  It is very hard that a field-officer, and
one too that has seen the fields of Alexandria,
Egmont-op-Zee, and the onslaught of Copenhagen,
should be so pestered by subalterns.  How this hard
bed makes my bones ache!  I have slept softer on
the hot yellow sand in Egypt.  They tell me this
was the bed-room of Don Alfonso the First, king of
Castile.  Devil mend him!  I suppose he did not
sleep on the pavement with a claymore for a pillow,
like Colin Campbell of Craigfianteoch, in Lorne,
a better man—for what is any Castilian don when
compared to a duine-wassal of Argyle?"  The major
snapped his fingers, and it was evident he was very
tipsy.  "But what do you want, Ronald, my boy?"
he added.

"The loan of your pistols, major, for ten minutes
only.  I have a very disagreeable affair to adjust
this morning."

"I regret to hear it; but it is with none of ours,
I hope, my knight of Santiago?"

"This is no time for jesting.  'Tis with a Portuguese
of Colonel Campbell's brigade," said Ronald,
colouring at the necessary falsehood.

"Pah! only a Portuguese,—a dirty garlic-eating
devil.  There are the pistols; and remember, always
level low, and fire the instant the word is given.  I
hope your arm is steady.  A little hartshorn-water
or Eau de Cologne are excellent things to rub it
with.  I am sorry I never keep any of these things
about me: Egypt cured me of them.  Take Stewart
the assistant-surgeon with you, and come back
when the tulzie is over, and give me an account
of it."

"You forget, major.  I may never come back."

"And your opponent a Portuguese!  Who is
your second?"

"Macdonald,—Macdonald of Inchkenneth.  These
pistols are very handsome," observed Ronald, with
affected carelessness, as he examined the stones with
which they were studded, and surveyed the flints
and locks.

"Ah! they are indeed handsome.  My grandfather
took them out of the Duke of Douglas's belt,
after he had unhorsed him at Shirramuir.  They did
some execution at Culloden, too."

"On the right side, of course?"

"Yes; in the army of the Prince.  Use this one,
with the cairn-gorum on the butt.  The other throws
high, and you would need to level to the boot to hit
the belt.  It happened so with me at Grand Cairo,
when firing at a Turkish thief.  I aimed at his sash,
and the ball knocked off his turban.  I would tell
you all the story, but there is no time.  I have no
fear of you; so be off, my lad.  God bless you! and
steady your hand.  Do not let it be said that a
Portuguese gained and kept the ground before a
Scotsman, and one of the Gordon Highlanders."

At the gate of the Alcanzar he met Macdonald,
and wrapping themselves up in their cloaks, as the
morning air was cold and chilly, they hurried towards
the bridge of Toledo.  The streets appeared gloomy
and dull in the grey light of the morning; and save
their own foot-falls, no other sound broke the silence.
The most public places were absolutely deserted.
The shops under the piazzas of the Plaza, the stalls
in the market-place, the *cafés* and *tabernas* were still
all closed.  Two or three halberdiers stood at the
gate of El Medico's residence, and these were all
they met, save a cloaked cavalier, who by a ladder
of ropes suddenly descended from the window into
the street, and disappeared.

On reaching the bridge which spans the Tagus,
immediately beneath the cannon and battlements of
the city, they found Lisle and Chisholm awaiting
them.  A pistol-case lay on the parapet over which
they were leaning, watching the smooth waters of
the river as they hurried on between rocky ledges,
banks overhung with foliage, and willow trees that
flourished amidst the stream.  A thick white mist
was beginning to curl up from the bed of the river,
exhaled by the increasing heat of the morning sun,
whose rays were tinging the east with red, and the
cross on the beautiful spire of the cathedral, from
one of the towers of which waved a broad and crimson
banner, bearing the arms of Toledo—the imperial
crown of Spain.

"A very disagreeable business this, Macdonald,"
whispered Chisholm, as he took the arm of the other,
and led him aside to the parapet of the bridge, where
they communed for a few seconds, leaving the
principals, awkwardly enough, to stare at each other or
admire the scenery, which ever they chose.

Another attempt at an amicable arrangement was
made, but without success; both parties were too
much exasperated to yield in the least degree.
"Once more I ask you, Stuart," said Chisholm,
coming forward, "cannot this unhappy affair be
adjusted without recourse to arms?"

"You are a good-hearted fellow, Chisholm, and
I fully appreciate your good intentions, but your
words are lost upon me; I refer you to Mr. Lisle
for an answer.  Mine was the insult, and any
apology should therefore come from him."

"It shall not!" exclaimed Lisle bitterly; "I
will rather die than apologize.  Stuart, you *shall*
fight me; and if not—"

"Lisle,—Lisle! your behaviour is very violent
and most unjustifiable."

"I am the best judge, Mr. Macdonald.  I fight
in the cause of another, and not for myself," said
Louis; and he turned haughtily on his heel, and
again walked to the parapet.

"I am perfectly disposed to accept of an apology,"
observed Ronald to the seconds in a subdued voice;
"but as one will not be given, on Lisle's own head
will rest the guilt of the blood shed this morning.
This quarrel has been of his own seeking, not mine.
Heaven knows how loath I am to fight with him, but
there is no alternative now.  Measure the ground,
and give us our weapons."

"Then, Macdonald," said Chisholm, "all hopes
of an accommodation are at an end?"

"Quite: your principal is much to blame.  But
we must be expeditious,—see how red the horizon
is; the drums will beat in ten minutes."

During the measuring of the ground and the
loading of the pistols, Ronald fixed his eyes on
the saffron east, where the sun was about to rise
in all its splendour above the mountains of Castile.
Appearing black between him and the glowing sky
rose the grassy height, crowned by the black old
ruins of the castle of San Servan, that fortress so
famous in romance, where "Ruy, the Cid Campeador,"
was wont to spend the night in prayer and
vigil.  The sky was seen through its embrasured
towers and empty windows, brightening in a blaze
of glory all around, and giving promise of another
day.  Ronald gazed eastward wistfully.  In ten
minutes more the sun would be up, but by that time
the eyes of either Lisle or himself might be sealed
for ever.  Ronald pictured what would be the
emotions of Alice if her brother was slain, because she
loved him well.  He thought of his father, too;
and remembered painfully that he would almost
exult, if young Lisle was slain in this contest.

His reverie was interrupted by Alister.

"All is ready,—Lisle has taken his ground," said
he, putting into Ronald's hand the cold steel butt of
the Highland pistol.  "For Heaven's sake, or rather
for your own, appear a little more collected.  Lisle
seems determined to shoot you, in revenge for your
neglect of his sister."

"You have mentioned the only thing which can
unnerve and unman me.  Chisholm has told you,
I suppose?"

"Yes.  An explanation might yet clear up this
business."

"I scorn to ask it now!"

"Are you ready?" cried Chisholm, who had
posted Lisle fourteen paces off.

"All ready."

"Stand aside, Macdonald.  I believe that I must
give the word."

"As you please."  Alister retired, but, like Chisholm's,
his heart was filled with a painful feeling of
suspense and dread.

The fatal word was given, and the report of both
pistols instantaneously followed.  Ronald fired into
the air, but reeled backwards a few paces, and sunk
on the road-way.  Louis's stern look immediately
relaxed, and he rushed towards him, tossing wildly
away the other pistol.

"Heaven be merciful and look down on me, I
have killed him!  O Stuart, Ronald Stuart! speak
to me," and he knelt over him with all the remorse
that a brave and generous heart is capable of
feeling, after the gust of passion has passed away.

"The ball has passed through his breast,"
whispered Macdonald in an agitated tone.  "Unclasp
the plaid, and open his coat.  There is no blood;
it must be flowing internally."

These observations, though made unintentionally,
added greatly to the distress of Louis Lisle; but the
unclasping of the shoulder-belt, the undoing of the
sash, the plaid, and yellow riband of his gorget,
aroused Ronald, who, to their great surprise, rose
slowly to his feet.

"Why, what are you all about, unharnessing me
thus?  I am not wounded, but I have received a
devil of a shock.  By a perfect miracle I have
been saved."

"One I shall ever bless!" said Lisle, pressing
his hand.

"How is this?" exclaimed Chisholm in astonishment;
"the ball has glanced off and torn your coat,
as if you wore a corslet under it."

"By Jove! the miniature has saved him.  He
wears one: I used to quiz him about it at Merida,"
said Macdonald, as he pulled open the yellow lapel
of the regimental coat, and displayed the little
portrait hung around his neck by a chain.  "You
perceive that the silver case has turned the ball,
which has become flattened against the parapet
yonder.  Such a very narrow escape!"

"The miniature! how comes this to pass?" asked
Lisle.  "Have you still preserved and worn it thus,
notwithstanding your change of sentiments?"

"Listen to me, Lisle.  I vow to you by Heaven and
my honour, that my sentiments are yet unchanged:
they are the same as in that hour when I first
received this miniature from your own hand; and from
that time until this I have continually worn it near
my heart, preserving it carefully and preciously as
any monk does here the piece of wood which he
considers a part of the true cross.  Never yet have
I parted with this relic for a moment, although I
own that I was on the point of destroying it when
I first received intimation of the intended alliance
between the Earl of Hyndford and your sister, Miss
Lisle,—an alliance probably formed by this time."

"The Earl of Hyndford!" exclaimed Louis, in a
tone of astonishment.  "Has that accursed and silly
report been the cause of our long alienation and
quarrelling?  Hyndford,—I had forgotten that affair
altogether, or never supposed it could have reached
you here in Spain.  We have both been cruelly
mistaken, but all will be happiness again.  Give me
your hand, Stuart, and we will be friends and
brothers as of yore.  Your heart is still unchanged, and
I pledge you my honour that the affections of Alice
are yours as much as ever.  But this hostile meeting
must be concealed from her, otherwise we should
never be forgiven.  Our seconds will never speak of
the matter; their honour is a sufficient warrant for
their secrecy."

Further conversation, and the congratulations of
Chisholm and Macdonald, were cut short by the
drums beating, and they were all compelled to hurry
off.  Lisle took the arm of Ronald, and they went
towards the muster-place by a different route from
that pursued by their seconds, so that they might
freely converse and give scope to their thoughts.
A most agreeable revulsion of feeling had taken
place in their minds.

"O Ronald Stuart!  I have been much to blame
in this business," said Lisle, "much to blame
indeed.  And can you forgive me?"

"Freely, Louis," replied the other, pressing his
hand.  "I admire the spirit with which you have
perilled life and limb for the cause of Alice.  And
so the dear girl is yet true?"

"True as the sun!  But I was infuriated,—almost
maddened by your seeming indifference.  It now
flashes upon my mind that you mentioned Lord
Hyndford in our unlucky quarrel at La Nava.  Until
this hour I had forgotten that; and probably but
for our mountain pride and Scottish stubbornness,
we might have come to a satisfactory explanation
twelve months ago.  What a deal of bitter feeling
the paragraph of that wretched newspaper has
occasioned!  But that is all at an end, and now, thank
Heaven! we will no longer greet each other like
hostile clansmen, with gloomy and averted eyes, as
our sires did of yore.  In all her letters to me Alice
has deplored that for twelve months past you have
broken off all correspondence with her,—indeed
never having written once since you left Lochisla;
and my excuses appear to have been very unsatisfactory
to her."

"I feared that my letters might fall into Sir
Allan's hands, and excite his displeasure.  And
afterwards our quarrel at La Nava appeared to
confirm my suspicions—"

"Say no more of them.  I have in my possession
a letter from her to you.  I was intrusted with it on
leaving home; but so great was the irritation I felt
from our meeting at La Nava, that instead of delivering
it, it has lain in my baggage until this hour,—nearly
a whole year."

"Cruel and foolish!  Ah, Lisle! how could you
be so vindictive?  Doubtless it would have
unravelled this matter."

"You know not by what indignant sentiments I
was prompted.  Pride hardened my heart, for I
loved Alice dearly; but, Stuart, I have heard some
strange stories whispered at our mess-table, in which
your name was entwined with that of a certain
Donna Catalina.  You change countenance."

"Poor Villa Franca; she was indeed a very
beautiful woman, and I will acknowledge that, jealous
and irritated as I was at Alice's supposed desertion,
I yielded greatly to the charms of the noble Spanish
lady; but I swear to you, Louis, that Alice—Alice
alone, is the only being, the only woman I have ever
truly loved!  How much I long to behold this
letter, and read the words her white hand has traced,
although so many months ago!"

"Gentlemen, the regiment has fallen in," said
the serjeant-major, breathlessly overtaking the
loiterers.  "The adjutant sent me to look for you,
Mr. Lisle.  You are to carry the king's colour to-day,
sir."  They hurried off.

Ronald derived the most exquisite pleasure from
this reconciliation with his old friend; and it was
alone equalled by the delightful idea that Alice
yet loved him, and was the same gentle, winning,
and blooming creature as ever,—and would yet be
his, when all the perils of campaigning were past.
Eagerly he longed for an opportunity to write: and
what a deal he had to tell her,—of love and war, of
future happiness, and mutual tenderness!

The long-detained letter of Alice could not be
procured from the depths of Lisle's baggage-trunks, until
the halt at the ruinous little town of Villa Mayor.
Although the march was only twelve miles, and lay
along the left bank of the Tagus, among the most
beautiful scenery,—wood and water, rocks and ruins,
fields and vineyards,—it appeared to Ronald the
longest and most wearisome he had ever performed.
As soon as he received the letter from Louis, he
rushed away to a secluded nook or bower of orange-trees,
by the river side, and prepared to con it over
in secret.  He hastily kissed and broke the seal,
which bore the crest of the Monteiths of Cairntowis,
with the motto *Keepe tryste*.  Ronald knew the
signet ring of his mother, which he had given to Alice
when he bade her adieu in the lawn before Inchavonhouse.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Inchavon, Perthshire,
       10th December, 1811.

.. vspace:: 1

"MY DEAREST RONALD,

.. vspace:: 1

"Louis has already sent you no less than
three letters, addressed to the regiment via
Edinburgh and Lisbon, but, alas! we have never yet
received any answer, and I fear that none of them
have reached you.  I know not how the posts are
arranged in Spain, but I am afraid that all our
letters have miscarried, as you must have written Louis
and me many by this time.  This one I send in the
care of my dear brother, who leaves us to-morrow
to join your regiment.  Ah!  I shall be very lonely
without him, and shall weep long and bitterly when
he is gone.  I shall have no one then to whom I can
impart my thoughts, or speak of you; and my tears
and anxiety will be redoubled, when you are both
exposed to the dangers of war.  Since you left
Perthshire I have never heard of a victory without
weeping, and I dare not read the lists of 'killed,
wounded, and missing,' lest the name of one should
be there,—one on whom my thoughts ever dwell as
their dearest treasure.  I cannot look at the paper,
which a servant brings every morning from Perth on
horseback, but I sit breathlessly, in fear and
trembling watching the face of papa, as he reads them
over at breakfast.  O goodness guide me, Ronald! my
anxiety and pain, lest his features should change,
are indeed beyond description.  How drearily the
days have passed since you left us; and I generally
spend them in wandering among the places you and
Louis loved best.  And—but enough of this: I
must not make my letter a dismal one.  Louis some
time ago appeared at the Perth ball in the uniform
of the Gordon Highlanders; and I assure you that
all the young ladies were quite in love with him,
fairly touched with the scarlet fever.  He outshone
the militia, yeomanry, and even the gay tartans of
Highland gentlemen from the hills.  How well a
gay uniform looks in a ball-room! and such a
flutter it creates in the hearts of the young ladies!  I
believe you soldiers would be very arrogant fellows,
if you really knew what we think you.  But, as
Mrs. Centlivre says, 'There's something so jaunty in a
soldier,—a kind of *je ne sais quoi* air, that makes
them more agreeable than all the rest of mankind.'  If
this is the case, we are to be excused for being
subdued by the gay epaulet.

"Lord Hyndford has been down here residing
with us for some time past, enjoying the
grouse-shooting with papa.  He is a very nice old
gentleman, with white hair and a purple face,—the last
occasioned, I suppose, by his drinking so much of
port; for every day after dinner he takes for his
share a bottle of papa's own 'particular.'  He has
become very peculiar and marked in his attentions
to me of late, (the idea of the thing!) and, dear
Ronald, it would almost make you jealous, could
you but see him hanging over me with a sentimental
expression on his droll old face, when I am playing
on the harp or piano.  But I love to tease him, and
always sing,

   |  "He's coming frae the north that's to marry me,
   |  He's coming frae the north that's to marry me;
   |  A feather in his bonnet, and the kilt aboon his knee:
   |  He's a bonnie Highland laddie,—but you are no he."
   |

"Indeed he annoys me very much, as I cannot
be troubled with his attentions, and you know I
never flirt.  In this affair, that which annoyed me
most was a notice which appeared in a newspaper
about his proposals to me.  Such horrid prying
creatures those news-people are!  But the editor
came here to Inchavon, and made so many apologies,
that he got off free, although papa had threatened
to horsewhip him.  But I shall soon be rid of
Hyndford, as the grouse-shooting ends to-day; and
he must soon go to Edinburgh, to attend a meeting
of Scots peers at Holyrood.

"Your father, poor man, must feel very lonely
now without you, especially as he lives so far up
the glen, in that dreary old tower, surrounded by
heather hills, water, and rocks.  I wish greatly that
papa and he were good friends; but he is so very
proud, and so very distant, that I see no chance of
its ever coming about.  Attended by my servant,
Jessie Cavers, I rode up the glen one Sunday, and
went to the old kirk of Lochisla to see him; and I
declare that I could with pleasure have given him a
kiss for your sake, Ronald, such a noble-looking old
gentleman he is!  He sat in his dark old oaken
pew, with his white hairs glistening in the sun,
which shone through the western window, and he
often bowed down his head on his huge clasped
bible.  It was to pray for you he did so—I am sure
it was, because I saw his lips move and his eyes
brighten.  He never looked once towards the pew
of the Corrie-oich family, with whom I sat, and so I
never encountered his glance; but his fierce-looking
old piper, who stood behind him, accoutred with
dirk and claymore, stared at me fixedly during the
whole service.

"When the aged and venerable-looking old minister
prayed, first in Gaelic and then in English,
for the success and safety of the British army, my
heart beat earnestly and responsive to the words
which fell from his withered lips.  Indeed you may
be sure it did.

"Whether or not papa favours the attentions of
the Earl of Hyndford I do not know; but he often
speaks kindly of you, and I love to listen to him
when he does so.  He has not forgotten that
dangerous ducking at Corrie-avon.  Ah! what a day
of terror that one was!

"I am very busy just now, working a pair of
colours for the Greek Light Infantry, the regiment of
my uncle Ludovick.  They are of white silk, quite
covered with embroidery and needle-work.  I am
heartily tired of them: but Louis's old flames, the
Graemes of Corrie-oich, are living with us just now,
and we ply our needles from day-dawn till sun-set
like so many Penelopes, and the standards will soon
be dancing in the breezes of the Ionian isles.  When
the Gordon Highlanders want a new pair of colours,
you will know where to apply.  With a thousand
prayers for your safety, and a thousand more for
your return, I must now conclude, as papa and
Hyndford have just come from the moors, with six
men laden with grouse-bags, and I must hurry
down to the drawing-room.  So believe me to be,
my own dearest Ronald, yours ever,

.. vspace:: 1

ALICE LISLE."

.. vspace:: 1

"P.S.  Do endeavour to send your next letters
by some other way, as they must all have mis-carried.
Try Cadiz, or Gibraltar,—but perhaps it is
impossible.  Jessie Cavers, my foster-sister, (who is
at my side while I am writing,) begs you will remind
her to her 'Jo and dearie O,' a young man named
Evan Iverach, who belongs to your company; and
tell him, that he is not forgotten by *the* heart he has
left at *hame*." A.L.

.. vspace:: 2

"Alice, my own beloved Alice! and you are yet
true!" exclaimed Stuart aloud, pressing the letter
to his lips.  "What a wretch and madman I have
been to doubt you for a moment!  How unworthy I
am that you should condescend to write to me!
Alas! oh, Alice, how much I have wronged you by
my false and wicked suspicions of your truth and
constancy.  Ah! my own dear girl, my repentant
heart turns to you more fondly by a thousand
degrees than of yore."  He drew forth her miniature
to gaze upon it, and while doing so, let fall the
letter.

"Upon my word, a most industrious creature!"
said Louis Lisle, who had been standing by, as he
picked it up.  "She has given you no less than four
closely written pages, of a very pretty lady-like and
current little hand.  I have been sitting beside you
for this hour past, skimming stones along the surface
of the Tagus,—not a very intellectual amusement.
I did not wish to interrupt you, but I thought you
would never come to a halt.  How often have you
read this letter over?"

"Three times."

"Thrice?  See what it is to be in love!"

"O Louis! how humbled and mortified I am.
What shall I say to Alice when I write to her?  I
dare not tell the truth,—and yet, by heavens!  I
cannot deceive her.  Is there no alternative, but to
wound her feelings by a whisper of my cursed
suspicions?"

"Come, my old friend, I will endeavour to make
your peace; and Alice, I believe, will not be very
inexorable.  I am billeted on the house of the
*Escrivan*, or town-clerk of this place, Villa Mayor,
and there we shall have writing materials in
abundance.  Let us set about our correspondence, and
have our letters ready for Lisbon, to be despatched
by the first orderly dragoon who rides to the rear."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BALL.—THE BULL-FIGHT.—AN ADVENTURE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER II.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE BALL.—THE BELL-FIGHT.—AN ADVENTURE.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "For she laid adown
   |    ——the hood and veil,
   |  And frontlet of the cloister pale,
   |    And Benedictine gown."
   |                          *Marmion.*

.. vspace:: 2

With every demonstration of joy Sir Rowland's
division of the army were received by the good
people of Aranjuez,[\*] a very interesting town, which
stands near the Tagus and Garama, about twenty-seven
miles from Madrid, and twenty-one from Toledo.
Aranjuez is surrounded by an amphitheatre of
hills and green forests, and contains the celebrated
summer residence of the kings of Spain; around
which spread the royal gardens, justly considered
the most beautiful and elegant in Europe.  The
town contains a Prado, or public promenade, four
miles in length, which crosses the Tagus twice, by
gaily-painted wooden bridges, before it loses itself
among the orchards and fragrant orange thickets.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Pronounced by the Spaniards *Arunwhais*.

.. vspace:: 2

The streets of the town are perfectly regular, even
monotonously so, but richly ornamented on the
outside with projecting cornices, pilasters, and
balconies.  There is a quietness, and an air of dignity
and "calm repose," about Aranjuez, which is not
often met with in Spain, but which marks it as being
strictly the residence of people of rank and fortune.
The town contains three churches, and an area for
bull-fights.  The Highlanders halted in the large
square, which is paved with marble, and contains the
splendid brass statue of Charles the Fifth.  The
Emperor is represented armed cap-a-pie, trampling
down heresy in the form of four arch-heretics.  The
statue and pedestal were decorated with flowers—indeed
all the streets were strewed with them—in
honour of the occasion.

Wellington, who by this time had been created a
Marquess, lay before Burgos, besieging the castle,
and the surrender of its garrison was looked for
daily.

As the second division expected to remain some
weeks at Aranjuez, they were billeted as usual on
the inhabitants; and the long arrears of pay having
been received, they were enabled to make themselves
tolerably comfortable.  The officers of the
Highlanders having so much loose cash on their
hands, determined to get rid of it as soon as
possible, by giving a splendid ball to the ladies of
Aranjuez and the officers of the division.

A committee was appointed to arrange matters,
despatch the invitations, and get the palace, which
had been procured for the purpose, duly fitted up
and decorated.  In this princely and spacious
building the Supreme Junta of the Spanish government
were installed, and held their first meeting in 1808.
Joseph Buonaparte occupied it previously to his
retreat to Valencia, and a great quantity of his
household stuffs, crystal, &c. were found in it, very
opportunely, and seized by the committee to equip
the supper tables.  From Madrid some thousand
variegated lamps were procured to illuminate the
gardens and avenues leading to the palace, and
nearly twelve hundred oil paintings, many of them
by the best ancient and modern masters, were
collected from different parts of the building, and hung
up in the suites of apartments appropriated to the
festivities.  The troops entered on the 1st of
October,—the ball was to be on the night of the
twentieth, and of course all the unmarried ladies
of Aranjuez were in a flutter,—nay, in fact, in a
state of extreme excitement about the affair.  The
ball, the ball to be given by the Scottish officers,
was the only subject discussed at the *soirées*,
*tertulias*, and parties at the houses of the citizens: at
the Prado, and in the *cafés* and *tabernas* in the town.
The committee, which consisted of Captain Seaton,
Macdonald, and Ronald Stuart, usually met every
evening in the palace, to send off the invitations and
discuss some of King Joseph's wine.

"I must send one of these to the young ladies of
my billet," said Alister on one occasion, as they sat
writing, folding, and sealing the cards at an open
window, where they were luxuriating in the fragrant
perfume of the gardens, smoking cigars, and sipping
Volnais.  "They are both young and pretty,"
continued Alister, "but sadly curbed in by an old
maiden aunt, who regards them as very dangerous
rivals."

"They are likely to prove so," said Seaton, the
captain of the light company; "the girls have
superb eyes and teeth.  In this capital Volnais I drink
to their healths, and that of the ex-king of Spain, to
whom we are so much indebted for assisting us with
our entertainment, by leaving his 'gudes and gear'
behind him."

"Here is the name of the Condé de Truxillo,"
observed Macdonald, consulting the invitation-list.
"Seaton, no notice appears as yet to have been
sent him."

"A general invitation has been sent to the officers
of his regiment.  I inclosed it myself, but I have
sworn to touch these matters no more.  This
Volnais obscured my faculties so much yesterday, that
I enclosed cards to dons which were written to
donnas, to dukes that were written to plain senores, and
*vice versa*.  I will leave these matters to you Mac,
and Stuart my subaltern; while, as president of the
committee, I will smoke my cigar and drink with
you, so long as the Volnais lasts.  *A-propos*,—push
the decanters this way!"

"So the condé has left the staff," observed Stuart.

"He belongs now to the 4th Spanish infantry;
they are with De Costa's brigade."

"Here is a card for Senores the four most
worshipful alcaldes of Aranjuez."

"What is the use of asking these people to a
ball?" said Seaton.  "Nothing more than mechanical
citizens, whose blowsy wives and daughters
will be intruding themselves, bedizened in the
dresses of the last century."

"It is impossible to pass them over, and vulgarity
may be excused in a magistrate.  Here are
invitations for the 10th Portuguese, for the Catalonian
Caçadores, the 39th and 66th British, and all
the cavalry brigades.  Now, then, for the ladies."

"God bless them!"

"*Amen!* Seaton.  Donna Isabel de Campo and
her four daughters.  These people live near this,
do they not?"

"No; in the marble square, three doors from
the palace D'Alarino.  Two of the light dragoons
are quartered there, and a pleasant time they seem
to have of it, as the five donnas spend the day in
flirting, waltzing, or twanging the guitar and piano.
And then mamma, although a little old and stale, is
of a very gay disposition."

"A comprehensive phrase in Spain.  You are a
most gossiping fellow, Seaton.  It is a marvel to
me how you learn the history of people as you do.
Don Felix Joaquin, knight of Calatrava,"[\*] continued
Alister, reading from the list.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] This order still exists, and is possessed of
fifty-six commanderies, and sixteen priories in Spain.

.. vspace:: 2

"A base rogue," was Seaton's comment, "and
one who kissed King Joseph's hand, the day before
he fled to Valencia.  You, as a true knight of
Santiago, should certainly break his head for him,
Stuart."

"Thank you: I shall not take the trouble.  Read
on, Macdonald."

"The very noble cavalier,—what a most
unpronouncible name,—Don Zunasbul Ascasibur de
Yñürritegui."

"A fellow as mad as Cuesta himself!  Invite him,
by all means."

"He is my *patron*," said Ronald, "a fine old
fellow,—a true Spaniard of the old school; and, like
Cuesta, sticks to the plumed beaver and slashed
doublet of his grandfather's days.  Who comes
next?"

"Micer Astuto Rubio, and his lady."

"Pshaw!" said Seaton, "an *abogado*; in other
words, a rogue.  *Astuto?* ah, he is well named; that
is Spanish for craft or chicanery, of which he has as
much, I believe, as any Edinburgh W.S."

"Donna Elvira Moro, *Calle Mayor*.  Any scandal
about her, Seaton?"

"Plenty, and to spare.  The town is full of strange
stories about her and her *escudero*, or gentleman-usher,
an office to which she suddenly raised him
from being a *moco de mulas*.[\*]  His goodly proportions
pleased the eye of the widow."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] A mule-driver.

.. vspace:: 2

"Scandal again!  The Duke of Alba de T——
and his two daughters,—Donna Olivia and Donna
Virginia."

"Three separate cards must be sent to them,"
said Stuart, inditing them while he spoke.

"The duke is supposed to be a traitor, and in the
French interest."

"I assure you, Seaton, his daughters are not,"
replied Ronald, writing the while.  "They are very
beautiful girls, and Lisle is a lucky dog to have his
billet in the palace of De T——.  He is continually
with them, either among the gardens, riding on the
Prado, or flirting at home, I believe.  The young
senoras are never to be seen, either at church or *la
Posada de los Representes*, without their most faithful
cavalier and *escudero*, the Honourable Louis Lisle."

"The mess get very little of his company just
now.  He never appears among us but at parade;
and when the word "dismiss" is given, he vanishes
like a ghost at cock-crow.  I wonder what the Duke
thinks of the matter?"

"I believe, Alister, he never thinks of it at all,"
replied Seaton.  "He is too proud to hold communication
with any one, and sits in his library smoking
Guadalaxara cigars and drinking sherry from dawn
till sunset, keeping every one at an awful distance."

"But his daughters—"

"Are strictly watched by an old duenna.  I got a
complete history of the family from my old
gossiping patron.  It appears that when old Mahoud
takes the duke to himself, the two girls will be
immensely rich.  Donna Olivia, who is as gay a
coquette as one can imagine, has a castle and estate
of her own, lying by the banks of the Nive, on the
French side of the Pyrenees.  Her sister, Virginia,
who has lately obtained her liberty from a convent,
by the Pope's dispensation dissolving her vows, has
become the leading star of Madrid and Aranjuez.
By the death of her cousin the Marquess of Montesa,
who was killed near Albuera, you will remember,
she has succeeded to large estates in Valencia,—Valencia
*la hermosa*,[\*] the land of wine and olives.  The
fair sisters are closely besieged by all the threadbare
cavaliers in the province,—fellows who trace their
pedigrees beyond King Bamba's days; so that Lisle
has very little chance."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] The beautiful.

.. vspace:: 2

"He will forget them when the route comes," said
Alister.  "I have been desperately in love about
eight times, since we landed at the Black Horse-square
in Lisbon; and Louis will get over this affair,
as I have done others.  The flirts of one garrison-town
efface the impressions made by those of the last."

"Now and then a raw sub is meshed and caged, though!"

"Or an old field-officer, in desperation of getting
a wife at all; but generally we *rough* it too much at
present to find time to fall in love."

On the evening of the Highlanders' ball all Aranjuez
was in a state of commotion: myriads of lights
were burning throughout the palace and royal gardens,
where every thing bore evidence of the good
taste and expedition of the committee.

For promenading there were set apart a long suite
of rooms, extending from one wing to the other.
Their floors were tessellated, and the ceilings gilded
and painted in fresco, while the walls had been
adorned by a thousand choice pictures, selected by
the committee.  These rooms had quite the appearance
of an exhibition; but at intervals were hung
wreaths of laurel, intermingled with festoons of tartan
plaids, garlands of flowers, glittering stars of
bayonets and claymores, pistols and musquets, which
were reflected in many a polished mirror hung
between the white marble pilasters which supported
the ceilings of these splendid apartments.  In every
one of the long suite was a richly carved marble
mantel-piece, and on each stood a magnificent alabaster
French clock.  Behind rose tall mirrors encircled
by gorgeously gilt frames, all of Paris manufacture,
part of King Joseph's household stuff, abandoned
by him on his hasty flight.

The rooms were brilliantly lighted up, as indeed
were the courts, arcades, and every part of the
spacious palace.  The large hall appropriated to the
dancers was decorated like the promenade.  The
regimental band occupied the music-gallery, in front
of which hung the yellow silk standards of the corps.
The curtains of the twelve lofty windows were hung
in festoons, showing the open casements and steps of
white marble leading to the illuminated gardens, in
the bowers of which the refreshment-tables were laid,
and attended by waiters.

A Highland guard of honour, consisting of a
hundred grenadiers, were drawn up in the portico to
receive, with the usual compliments, the magistrates
and persons of rank; and the members of the
committee might be seen hurrying through the lighted
rooms in full puff,[\*] dressed in their gayest uniform,
ordering here and there and every where the
servants and attendants, and getting every thing in due
order before the company began to arrive.  About
nine o'clock came the four pompous alcaldes, clad
in gowns of red scarlet.  Three brought their wives
with them,—swarthy old ladies, wearing their hair
twisted in two gigantic tails, reaching far below
their waists.  Each came in an old-fashioned
carriage, attended behind by a couple of strapping
alguazils, armed with halberts or blunderbusses.  The
guard of honour presented arms, the drum beat a
march, and the four senores, doffing their sombreros,
were ushered into an outer apartment, where Fassifern
stayed to receive the company.  He was dressed
in full uniform, and wore his kilt and purse, instead
of the *truis* and spurs of a field-officer, and his
plaid of dark green tartan was fastened to his left
shoulder by a splendid silver brooch, which flashed
and sparkled in the light of the lustres.  After the
arrival of the unfashionable alcaldes, the company
continued to pour in without intermission, until the
rooms were crowded.  All the staff arrived about
twelve o'clock; but the general himself, for some
reason, was unable to attend.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] A military cant word for full dress.

.. vspace:: 2

The interior of the stately palace presented a scene
of no ordinary splendour on that evening.  Hundreds
of uniforms of cavalry and infantry officers—British,
Spanish, Portuguese, and German, were
glittering every where.  The ladies were attired in all
the colours of the rainbow, and their light floating
dresses were seen mingling among smart light
dragoons, Scottish Highlanders, green-clad caçadores,
and clumsy German riflemen, and, I must
remark, that the latter were perhaps the most vulgar
and ungainly fellows that ever appeared in a
ballroom.  There were numbers of cavaliers attired in
the Spanish doublet, a close-fitting vest with sleeves.
A smart mantle dangled from their left shoulder, and
nearly all wore knee-breeches and broad white
collars around their necks—a costume at once smart
and picturesque.  Many wore the garbs and badges
of their national military orders: there were knights
of Calatrava and Alcantara, wearing,—the former
red crosses, the latter green, upon black velvet
tunics; and knights of "the Band," wearing the
scarlet scarf of their ancient order.  But the most
picturesque costumes were those of four knights of the
religious order of Redemption, who appeared clad
completely in white, with a large black cross on the
breast of the silk tunic, which reached to the knees.
A white velvet mantle flowed behind, and each wore
three white feathers in a small round cap of a flat
shape, like the bonnet of a Lowlander.

These singular garbs added greatly to the gaiety of
the scene; but if the interior of the palace presented
a blaze of splendour, the illuminated gardens were a
realization of fairy land.  Two channels having been
given to the Tagus, the grounds of the palace were
enclosed as an island, being completely surrounded
by the stream, amid which many a stately swan
was swimming about, or slowly sailing as they spread
their snowy plumage to the breeze.  The trees were
thickly planted on each side of the walks, and their
boughs, which were beginning to wear the brown
tints of autumn, embraced each other, and being
carefully pruned below, formed long and beautiful
sylvan arcades, such as are not to be found in any
other garden in Europe.  A thousand variegated
lamps, clustering like enchanted fruit, were hung
upon their boughs, or stretched from tree to tree in
festoons, illuminating with a blaze of light the
deepest recesses, where even the meridian sun could
not penetrate.

White marble statues were gleaming, and the
rushing waters of the famous *jets d'eau* were sparkling
like showers of diamonds in the artificial light,
which likewise revealed the glories of the rich
parterres, where flowers of every tint, crimson and gold,
purple and blue, orange and red, were yet budding
and blooming in spite of the advanced time of the
year.  The strains of music were wafted divinely
through the open casements of the hall, where the
dancers were wreathed in the quadrille, or wheeled
round in the giddy waltz,—the light feet of the Spanish
girls gliding like those of sylphs or fairies, while
their airy drapery, floating about over the marble
floors, seemed like the garments of the same
imaginary beings.  What a strong contrast all this
scene formed, when compared with the misery and
discomfort which the troops had endured so long, and
that which they were soon again doomed to suffer!

Like the other officers of the Highlanders, Ronald
was accurately attired in full uniform, wearing his
cross on his breast.  His kilt, which contained ten
yards of the Gordon tartan, reached to within three
inches of his knee; from this the leg was bare to the
swell of the calf, where his silk hose of red and
white dice, were gartered with knots of red
ribbons.  A handsome brooch confined the folds of
his plaid above the left epaulet, and a tasselled
sporan, the mouth of which was hidden by a fox's
head, dangled from his waist.  His patron, Don
Ascasibur Yñürritegui, who was attired in the dress
and armed with a long Toledo of Charles the Fifth's
days, had introduced him to several pretty girls,
with all of whom he had danced and flirted,
promenaded, handed scarfs, bouquets, and ices, and
acquitted himself as a very accomplished caballero.
For Louis Lisle he looked every where in vain: he
was the only one absent.

"Where is Lisle, Alister?" asked he of Macdonald,
who moved slowly past, with a fat old lady leaning
on his arm.  Although richly jewelled and robed,
she was confoundedly ugly, and wore a white veil
hanging down her broad back from a comb at least
one foot six inches high.  "It is very odd,"
continued Ronald, "that he should absent himself on
this occasion."

"The Duke of Alba de T—— and his two charming
daughters have not arrived yet.  Louis will come
with them."

"Ah!  I had forgotten.  I long to see those
beauties of whom I have heard so much.  But how is it
that I have not seen you dancing to-night?"

"Tush!" whispered the other ruefully in English.
"Campbell, designedly I think, introduced me to
this old woman, his *patrona*,—wife of the *Contador*,
or Steward of the palace.  She sticks to me like a
burr, and I am compelled to waste the night as her
*escudero*, when so many delightful girls are present."

"The flower of Madrid and Aranjuez."

"I will revenge myself on Campbell for this trick
of his."

"Try if Blacier, of the 60th, will relieve you
of her.  Germans are not very fastidious in their
tastes.  He is standing among the dancers, alike
regardless of place or persons, smoking his long
German pipe as coolly as he would do in a
guard-room."

Alister led the unconscious lady off, and succeeded
"in turning her over to Blacier's command," as he
said when he rejoined Ronald.

"There is Seaton," said he, "striving to make
himself agreeable to the gay widow of the Calle
Mayor, Donna Elvira Moro."

"Seaton can easily do that; he is a very handsome
fellow.  Who is the young lady to whom
Bevan has attached himself so closely?"

"One of rank, I believe, and a widow too,—the
Condessa Estremera."

"How gaily she flirts."

"Poor Bevan! he is a simple fellow, and I believe
she is making a sad fool of him.  Last night I saw
her amusing herself thus with one of the 34th,
and——  Hah! here comes Lisle, with the duke and
the young ladies.  Beautiful girls!"

"Beautiful indeed!" echoed Stuart, as the tall
and portly duke, attired in an old-fashioned dress,
with his broad beaver under his left arm, and, encased
in a white glove, the little hand of Donna Olivia
drooping on his right, entered the dancing-rooms,
followed by Lisle leading Donna Virginia.  Both
the sisters were tall, and of queen-like figures.  Their
dresses of white satin were richly trimmed with fine
lace, and lofty ostrich-feathers nodded above their
glossy ringlets, amid which many a diamond and
other gem sparkled and blazed when they moved.
Long white Spanish veils, descending from the head,
hung down behind them, giving to their figures still
greater grace and dignity.

"They are lovely creatures!" said Macdonald.
"But Virginia moves like an empress among all the
plumed and jewelled beauties around her."

"What a thrice enviable sub is Master Louis, to
be their cavalier!  All eyes are turned upon them."

"And a knight of Alcantara, yonder, leaning
against the mantel-piece, seems to eye Lisle with a
very unfriendly look.  In truth, Donna Olivia
appears like some being of another world.  Her
features are Grecian rather than Spanish; and her
eyes—by Jove! they are brighter than diamonds,
and flash like lightning when she smiles.

"You seem quite enraptured with her."

"I am a connoisseur; but fair as she is, there is
one bonnie lass in the Western Isles, who to me
seems fairer still.  Olivia is a bold and beautiful girl,
but there is something softer, yet not less pleasing,
in the hazel eyes of Virginia."

"Virginia!  By heavens, I should know her face!
Where can I have seen it before?"

"Hush! they are moving this way, smiling and
coquetting as if they meant to be the death of us all."

"Faith!  Alister, I hope Lisle will have the
charity to introduce us."

"Tush!  A Spanish officer has carried off Olivia.
He has engaged her for the next dance.  He is
bowing to you, Stuart."

Ronald's eyes at that moment encountered those
of the Condé de Truxillo.  Both bowed, and the
condé placing his arm around Olivia, wheeled her
into the circle of the waltzers, where they were seen
only for a moment now and then.  Fassifern led
away the duke to one of the refreshment-tables in
the garden; while Lisle, followed by the sharp eyes
of many a jealous cavalier, advanced towards Stuart
and Macdonald, with Virginia leaning on his arm.

"I wish one of you would find a partner," said
he; "we want a *vis-a-vis* for the next quadrille."

"With pleasure."

"I am engaged to dance with Donna Isabel de
Campo," said Alister; "but pray introduce me,
Louis."

"And me," added Ronald.  "A most lucky dog
you are!"  These observations passed in English;
but the formal introduction was gone through in
choice Castilian.  "I have surely had the happiness
of seeing Donna Virginia before," said Ronald.
"It is impossible I could ever forget."

"Holy Mother!  *Senor Officiale*," exclaimed the
young lady with an air of pretty surprise, as she
raised her fine eye-brows; "is it possible that you
recognise me, arrayed as I now am in a garb so
different from that which I wore in the convent
of Santa Cruz?"

"Do I behold the Madre Santa Martha of Jarciejo
in Donna Virginia?  What riddle is this, senora?"

"A strange one truly, senor, and a very agreeable
transformation," replied the lady, blushing and
smiling as she glanced at her figure, which was
fully reflected in an opposite mirror.

"What is all this?" asked Lisle in surprise.
"Then you are acquainted with each other, it
seems?"

"O yes, Don Louis; quite old friends indeed,"
replied the lady, with a vivacity which piqued Don
Louis a little.  "We met on a sad occasion—a very
sad one, truly,—of which I will give you the history
when we are at leisure.  'Tis quite a romance, and
Cervantes of Esquivas,[\*] or Juan de Valencia,[\*\*]
have never written any thing like it."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Cervantes is said to have been born at Esquivas, near Toledo.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

[\*\*] Author of *El Patranuelo*, and other old-fashioned works.

.. vspace:: 2

"Allow me to lead you, Donna Virginia; the
dancers are arranging themselves.  Had we not
better take our places?"

"Certainly, senor; but our *vis-a-vis*, remember.
Shall I introduce your friend to the Condessa
Estremera.—she waltzes beautifully."

"The Condessa is engaged; she appears resolved
to make quite a conquest of Bevan of ours."

"Are we to look all night for a *vis-a-vis*?  Oh! here
comes my sister Olivia; she is beautiful enough to
make him die of love, and I shall introduce him,
if it was only to make Truxillo jealous."

Truxillo regarded Stuart with no pleasant eye
as he carried off his donna.  However, he endeavoured
to dissemble, and said with a smile, "I congratulate
you, senor, on obtaining the highest order
of knighthood that a Spanish king can confer.
You will find it easy work to protect the pilgrims
who visit Compostella from the insults of the
Moors in the nineteenth century.  I am myself
a commander of the order," he added, displaying
a richer cross, around which was the
motto,—*Sanguine Arabum*.

"I am again to be the rival of this fiery condé.
I am always in some confounded scrape," thought
Ronald, as he led his partner to her place.

"*Santa Anna*, senor! these rooms are suffocating,"
said the lady.

"As soon as the dance is ended, permit me to
have the honour of leading you to the garden."

"Pray relieve me of my scarf."  The thin gauze
screen was transferred from the white shoulders of
Olivia to Ronald's arm.

"See, senor,—the Condessa; how well she is
looking.  Ah! had she only worn her tiara on her
black curls, she would have been matchless."

"Impossible, while Donna Olivia is present."

"Look at that officer of Villamur's regiment,—a
handsome cavalier; he bows.  How do you do,
Pedro?  What can that old knight of Calatrava
be whispering to the rich widow of the Calle Mayor.
Ah, I would give the world to know!  How they
smile at each other.  Love must be very agreeable.
*Santos*!  I have dropped my fan.  Quick, senor; pick
it up, before the feet of the dancers——  A thousand
thanks," she added, as Ronald restored it to her.
"I would not have it destroyed for the universe,—'tis
a present from Don Carlos Avallo: he, too, is
looking this way.  How d'ye do, Carlos?" and
thus did Olivia run on during all the intervals
between the figures of the dance.

No sooner was the quadrille over, than the
galopade was proposed.

"*Viva la galopade!* cavaliers," cried Cameron,
striking his hands together.  Lisle still kept
Virginia, and Ronald her gay sister, and all the
cavaliers of Old and New Castile grew hot with
indignation and jealousy.  Away flew the dancers to the
crash of music from the orchestra.  The scene was
indeed glorious.  A hundred couples went round
hand in hand, plumes waving, ear-rings trembling,
jewels and epaulets, stars and medals flashing and
glittering, spurs and poniards clanking, the light
feet and muslin drapery of the graceful Spanish
girls flying about and mingling with the buckled
shoes and dark green tartans of the Highlanders.
Bravo!  It was beautiful.

The dance was over, and the ladies, breathless
and overcome, with bosoms panting, cheeks blushing,
and eyes sparkling, clung to the arms of their
cavaliers, who led them through the open casements
to promenade in the cool gardens, where the female
waiters, little sylph-like girls about twelve or fifteen
years old, clad in white, with their black curls
streaming about, glided through the illuminated
arbours and walks, handing ices to the ladies, and
cool and sparkling champagne or Malaga to the
gentlemen.  When promenading with Olivia through
one of the beautiful walks, from each side of which
he was constantly culling fresh flowers for her
bouquet, Ronald heard familiar voices conversing in an
orange-bower, the interior of which was brilliantly
illuminated with parti-coloured lamps.

"Yes, sir; we turned their flank, and fell upon
them with the bayonet, and with God's help cut to
pieces every mother's son of them in five minutes,"
said Campbell within the bower, striking his heavy
hand emphatically on the seat; adding afterwards in
another tone, "Most excellent champagne this, Don
Ascasibur, and much obliged we are to the ex-king
of Spain for leaving it here to be drunk by better men."

"*Satanas* take the ex-king!" replied Yñürritegui.
"And so it was as you tell, that this very noble old
cavalier was slain?"

"Ay, sir; the shot struck him *here*, and he fell
sword in hand from his saddle.  A gallant fellow
was Sir Ralph, and under his command I was
initiated into all the sublime mysteries of soldiery."

"Campbell has been fighting Egypt over again to
my *patron*," thought Stuart.  "Major," said he,
looking in, "how can you and Don Ascasibur be
so ungallant as to forsake the ladies for champagne
flasks?  Fie upon you! senores."

"The ladies will not break their hearts: such a
fright old Yñürritegui is!" whispered Olivia behind
her fan.

"Campbell, do you mean to sit here all night?"
said Chisholm, looking in on the other side as he
passed with a lady.  "They are arranging themselves
for the galope again."

"It is fit only for subs," replied the major testily.
"The idea of a field-officer galloping any way but
on horseback!"

"It seems quite the rage here at Aranjuez,"
said Stuart, as Chisholm moved off.  "But then
the girls here galope so beautifully, they are in the
right to have it so.  So, major, you do not mean to
join the dancers to-night?"

"Yes," answered the other, shaking the flasks,
which all proved empty; "but neither at waltz,
quadrille, or galope.  I have no idea of flying round
a room at the rate of ten miles an hour, in mortal
terror the while of crushing the ladies dear little
feet and white satin shoes with my heavy brogues.
Besides, the dance is too intricate for me—'chassez
to the right and left, turn your partner, balancez, turn
again, galopade à la chassez to places!'  Pooh!
I would rather dance Tullochgorm or the *Ruighle
Thulaichean*, or any other decent fling; but I have
no love for your Spanish dances and galopade
quadrilles.  They ill become the *sporran* and *breacan-anfeile*
of the Highlandman, and are no more to be compared
to a strathspey than a Toledo is to a real-fluted
Andrea Ferrara."  The major snapt his fingers, and
chanted with a loud voice a verse of the Grant's reel:

   |  "There needs na be sae great a phrase,
   |  Wi' dringing dull Italian lays,
   |  I wadna gie our ain strathspeys
   |    For half a hundred score o' em.
   |
   |  They're douff an' dowie at the best,
   |  Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
   |  They're douff an' dowie at the best,
   |    Wi 'a' their variorum.
   |
   |  They're douff and dowie at the best,
   |  Their allegros and a' the rest,
   |  They canna please a Highland taste,
   |    Compared wi' Tullochgorm."
   |

Stuart was leading away Donna Olivia, who
laughed excessively at the major's song, which
sounded wondrously uncouth to her ears, when
Campbell called to him.  "I say, Stuart," said he,
"I am going to show the ladies here a new fling.  I
have sent for Ranald Dhu and the six pipers.
Fassifern, Ronald Macdonuil, and myself, are about to
perform the sword dance.  We astonished old
Mohammed Djedda with it in Egypt.  You must
join us."

"I should be most happy, but I am the honoured
cavalier of one of the prettiest girls in Aranjuez, and
it is impossible I can join you; but we will witness
it in the hall."

A few minutes afterwards the pipers arrived, and
preparations were made for the Highland dance.
Claymores were taken from the wall, and laid across
each other on the floor.  The colonel, Campbell, and
two other officers took their places, while seven
pipers stood at the end of the hall, and on a given
signal struck up an appropriate air.

"*Santa Maria!*" screamed the senoras, and
"*Morte de Dios!*" growled the senores, while they
covered their ears with their hands to protect them
from "so dangerous an invasion."  Many an English
and Irish officer did so likewise, for the sound of the
pipes in the vaulted hall was tremendous.  Away
went the dancers to the sound of the first note, and
continued to leap, skip, and "hooch and hoo!"
while they flung about with true Scottish spirit
and agility, moving with miraculous precision among
the bare blades of the claymores, while applauses
loud and long rewarded them.  'Twas a new sight
indeed to the Spaniards, and the eyes of every
Scotsman present lighted up with enthusiasm, although
many of them had never witnessed the martial dance
before.  Long after the others had resumed their
seats, the gigantic Campbell, strong, active, and
filled with perfect delight, continued to dance, wave
his arms and the folds of his enormous kilt and
plaid, until at last compelled to sink into a seat,
amid loud huzzas and astounding vivas.

Quadrilles, galopades, and waltzes again followed,
and before the ball broke up the light of the morning
sun had replaced the illuminations of the palace
and its gardens.  Then came the gallant farewells,
and shawls, mantillas, and furred shoes were in
requisition, the gentlemen making themselves as busy
as possible in wrapping up the ladies to protect
them from the chill morning air; and then, muffling
themselves in their cloaks, many an officer and
cavalier strode away behind the lumbering carriage
or sedan, which conveyed to her home some lady to
whom they had been particularly attentive during
the night, and whom, as in duty bound, they wished
to squire to the door of her own residence,—the
streets of continental cities not being very safe at
these hours, when *picaros* and *valientes*\[\*] of every
kind are on the watch, to exercise their talents on
the unsuspecting or unprotected.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Rogues and ruffians, or bravos.

.. vspace:: 2

On the following evening a grand bull-fight was
to be held in the marble square, for the entertainment
of the British.  The splendid mansion of the
Duke of Alba de T—— formed nearly a whole
side of this elegant Plaza, and from its windows an
excellent view could be obtained.  The Condé de
Truxillo, Fassifern, Seaton, Lisle, and Stuart, and
many other officers, dined with the duke that day.
The ladies were all smiles and beauty, although a
little pale with the fatigues of the preceding evening;
but Olivia, and her cousin the bright-eyed condessa,
were as gay and vivacious as ever.  The dinner,
which consisted of a variety of stews, cutlets, and
light confectionary, began by a course of fruit, just
as ours ends.  Afterwards came chocolate, and
cigars for those gentlemen who chose to lounge on
the balconies, and plenty of flirting, waltzing,
singing and music at the piano and guitar, for those who
remained with the ladies.

During the whole day preparations had been
making for the approaching display.  All the streets
leading to the Plaza were strongly barricadoed with
bullock-cars, mule-carts, and every thing that could
serve to enclose the arena, and prevent the escape
of the bulls.

Four of them were imprisoned in a den at one end
of the square, where they were undergoing a process
of torture, being goaded by steel pikes through holes
in the roof, to rouse them to the requisite pitch of
madness and ferocity.  It was a beautiful sunny
evening, and about four o'clock the people began to
collect; at six the Plaza was crowded to excess,—the
balconies, roofs, and windows were all taken
possession of, and hundreds of pennons, streamers,
and garlands flaunted from the houses; while the
bands of the 28th and the 6th Portuguese caçadores
filled the air with strains of music, and delight shone
in every Spanish eye at the amusement promised
by their favourite national pastime.

The guests of the duke occupied the large balcony,
which extended along the front of his house.  It
was covered with a piece of tapestry, and the ladies
were seated in front, while their cavaliers stood
behind.  Here Stuart missed the condé, who had been
by Donna Olivia's side all day.  He was about to
inquire for him, when Balthazzar suddenly appeared
in the arena, arrayed in a very singular garb.  A small
velvet cap was on his head, fully displaying his short
curly hair and fine features.  He wore a close-fitting
doublet of black cloth, slashed with white;
a mantle of a bright orange colour hung on his left
arm, and in his right hand he carried a short pike
about five feet long, the head of which was of sharp
and bright steel.  Three other cavaliers, similarly
accoutered, made their appearance in the arena,
and the people raised a cry of "*Viva Baltazar, el
valiente soldado!  Viva el gracios caballero
Ascasibur Yñürritegui*!  Here are the bulls!  Here are
the bulls!"

Balthazzar kissed his hand to Donna Olivia, who
threw him a flower from her breast, and he placed it
in his cap.

"Beware, my poor condé," said she, "and be not
over rash.  Remember that your foes are bulls from
the Xamara."

"Are they different from any other bulls, Donna
Virginia?" asked Louis.

"Oh! have you not heard?  They are the very
fiercest in Spain,—perhaps in the world.  When
once aroused, nothing tames them but being slain."

"And to these the condé is about to oppose
himself.  Are you not concerned for his safety,
senoras?"

"Balthazzar has a sharp pike and a sure heel,"
answered Olivia, fanning herself, "and I have no
fears for him."

"Have you ever seen any one killed in the arena?"

"Yes.  A bull of Xamara tossed our poor cousin,
the Condé Estremera, into the air, and he came
down dead."

"And still you like this sport?" said Cameron,
"sport which our Scottish ladies would shudder to
look upon."

"Yes, senor.  *O viva Santissima!*" answered all
the ladies at once, clapping their white hands, "here
come the bulls!"

A shout of delight from the multitude shook the
Plaza.  A sort of portcullis had been raised, and
forth from his den rushed a bull into the arena, his
eyes darting fire, with nostrils elated, and mouth
covered with foam, the hair of his neck bristling up
like the mane of a lion, and every muscle quivering
with the torture he had undergone.  He rolled his
red eyes about, as if to select a convenient object to
attack.  The condé waved his orange mantle across
the face of the bull, which, uttering a roar, plunged
forward upon him.  Closely pursued by his formidable
adversary, Truxillo ran round the arena.  This
was the most dangerous part of the game, as a fall,
or the least false step, would be certain death.  At
the moment when the bull was preparing for a grand
plunge "with hoof and horn," the condé sprung
over a barrier, dropping his mantle as he did so.  It
was instantly transfixed and tossed into the air by
the bull, which was now attacked in the rear by
Don Ascasibur, who carried a red mantle and a
pike, which he plunged into the brawny flank of the
victim.  With a roar of fury and agony the beast
thundered over the marble pavement after his
assailant, but was diverted from the pursuit, being
pierced by the pikes of a third and fourth cavalier,
who kept him galloping round the arena in every
direction, dropping their mantles and leaping the
barriers whenever the danger became too pressing,
until he sunk exhausted and bloody at the base of
the statue of Charles the Fifth, where the condé put
an end to its agony by plunging his pike repeatedly
into its body.  Three others were slain in the same
manner, and all the performers had narrow escapes
for their lives at different times.  The four bulls
were sent away to the kitchen of the *Casa de los
locos*\[\*] for the benefit of the patients and the poor
people of the town.  Extraordinary agility, skill,
and courage were displayed by the four cavaliers in
this daring Spanish game, which, though not less
cruel, had in it, by the personal risk incurred,
something infinitely nobler and more chivalric than the
brutal custom of bull-baiting, which so long
disgraced South Britain.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Asylum for the insane.

.. vspace:: 2

In the course of an hour all the bulls had fallen
in succession, and yielded the palm to their four
tormentors, who were greeted with enthusiastic
applause by the multitude, on whose shoulders they
were lifted up, and carried by force triumphantly
round the square.

When this display was over, the condé resumed
the brown uniform and silver epaulets of the 4th
Spanish infantry, and rejoined the duke's guests in
the balcony, from which they were beholding other
feats of dexterity.  A tall and powerful Spaniard,
Gaspar Alozegui, the strongest and most athletic
man in the two Castiles, entered the arena, bearing
a large cannon-shot, and a sledge-hammer.  He
waved his broad hat to the populace, who cheered
their favourite, as no man yet had ever rivalled him
in feats of strength and agility.  Taking up the
cannon-shot, the weight of which I have forgotten,
he poised it for a moment in his hand, and then
tossing it from him, sent it whizzing along the
pavement, as a bowler does a cricket ball, from one end
of the Plaza to the other, where it rebounded against
the wall of a house and lay still.  Alozegui
arrogantly challenged any man among the thousands
there assembled to throw it within ten feet of the
spot where it then lay, offering in that case to forfeit
a purse of ten *onzas* presented to the victor by the
fair *patronas* of the day,—the daughters of the Duke
of Alba de T——.  Alozegui looked around him
triumphantly; but no man answered the challenge,
which was not delivered in very moderate language,
and he now grasped the shaft of his ponderous hammer.
Swinging it thrice round his head, he hurled it
from his hand with the speed of a thunderbolt.  The
crowd for a moment held their breath, and the gaze
of their eyes followed the semicircle which it
described through the air.  It alighted close by the
shot, and again the cheers of the people broke forth;
after which Gaspar repeated his challenge in the
same arrogant terms.

"Such an insolent dog as this Alozegui deserves
to be beaten," said the condé.

"He has thrown well," observed Stuart, as he
leant over the balcony; "yet the sport loses its
zest when there is no competitor."

"*Viva*, Alozegui," said Donna Olivia.  "He
deserves to kiss my hand, and should but for his
bushy black beard."

"I am convinced that my servant, Dugald Mhor,
old as he is, will throw these matters further," said
Fassifern, who was indignant at Alozegui's challenge,
and burned with eagerness to see him beaten.
He spoke in English, "I suppose Dugald is
below among the servants.  He followed me here.
As sure as my name is John Cameron, he will
beat Alozegui."

"Let some one inquire if he is below?"

"I say, colonel," cried Seaton, who was seated at
the other end of the balcony, with his glass at his
eye; "surely, Campbell of ours is about to answer
the challenge of the Spaniard.  He has entered
the arena."

"Now, by heavens! well done Colin, and Dugald
Mhor too,—honest old Dugald!  Look to yourself,
Micer Alozegui; you will scarcely hold the prize
against two such men," said Cameron in great glee.
"Major, are you about to contend with this
impudent loon?"

"We are indeed," replied Campbell, "and hard
work the braggadocio will have to beat us.  Dugald
and I are comrades to-day, and mean to show these
dons the mettle of Highlandmen, and what sort of
muscle brose and brochan can produce.  I have
hurled a stone three times the size of that shot from
Craigfianteach into Lochawe, and mean to strain
every nerve to give the dons a surprise.  I thought
it a shame that so many British men should stand
by quietly, and let a Spaniard boast thus.  Throwing
the hammer is a national amusement, and I hope
that neither don or devil will beat a Scotsman at it.
After we have conquered Senor Alozegui, Dugald
and I will challenge the whole crowd to a game at
quoits or shinty, whichever they like best."

Alozegui, on understanding that they had answered
the challenges, laid the shot and hammer before
them, carefully marking the places where they lay;
a needless precaution, as he very soon learned.

"Dugald Cameron, my man, take you the shot,"
said the major, "and let them see that you are 'steel
to the bane.'  Ye showed true mettle the day Alexandria
was fought, and can do so here, lyart though
your pow may be.  I will take the fore hammer, and
now, my lads! here are two decent Highlandmen
against all the bearded braggarts on this side of
the Pyrenees."

"I am auld enough to be his gutcher twice ower
and mair, as my siller haffets and runkled cheeks
may tell you; but I will never shrink frae the task
when a Hieland gentleman like your honour commands
me," said Dugald, as he cast down his bonnet,
sword, and plaid; and taking up the ball as if it
had been a walnut, without once looking at it, threw
it over the houses at the end of the square by a single
swing of his arm.

"The Cameron for ever!  Well done, Dugald!"
exclaimed the major.  "A foot lower and the
Emperor had lost his head, which would have spoiled
all the sport."

Dugald laughed, stroked down his white hairs,
and casting his plaid around him, withdrew under the
balcony where the delighted Fassifern was standing.
He received a cheer, though not a very cordial one,
from the people; and Alozegui bestowed upon him
a most formidable scowl of rage and hatred, to which
he replied by a laugh, and a direction to "gie the
gowd he had tint to the puirfolk."  Now came the
major's turn, and the Spaniard began to tremble for
his fame.  The former, after examining the ponderous
hammer to assure himself that the handle was
firmly fixed into it, swung it once around his head,
and straining every muscle to conquer, cast it from
his hand with a force and swiftness truly amazing.
Describing a complete arch over the spacious Plaza,
it whirled through the air, and passing over the
houses of an adjacent street, lighted among the
reeds on the banks of the Tagus, where it was
discovered next day.  However, it could not be
found for that night, and the only reward Campbell
received from the Spaniards for his prowess, was the
half-muttered ejaculation of astonishment at the
flight taken by the missile.  The dons were very
angry at their hero being beaten by a foreigner and
heretic, and so astonished at his wonderful strength,
that they readily adopted the opinion of some old
Capuchine padres, "that he had been assisted by
the devil."

"Hoich, major! weel dune," shouted old Dugald,
waving his bonnet.  "Fair play a' the warld
ower,—*Cothram na feine*,[\*] as we say at hame in Lochiel.
Ferntosh and barley-bannock are the stuff to mak'
men o'; no accadenty and snail-broth,—deevil tak'
them baith!"

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] The equal battle of the Fingalians,—a Highland proverb.

.. vspace:: 2

"Long life to you, major!" cried many of the
Highlanders; and hundreds of soldiers belonging
to the 66th, 34th, and other corps of the division
huzzaed him loudly.  On receiving from the duke's
*contador* (steward) the purse of thirty *onzas*,
Campbell, knowing that Dugald was too proud to touch
a maravedi of the money placed it in the hands of
Alozegui, telling him not to be cast down, as Dugald
and himself had beaten better men than ever trod
the realm of Spain.  This taunt only stung more
deeply the fiery and enraged Spaniard, who scorned
to receive the purse, which he tossed among the
people, and leaping over the barriers, disappeared.
Campbell waved his hummel-bonnet (a plain cap
without feathers) to the assembled multitude, and
withdrew to finish the night over a pigskin with
Don Ascasibur, and tell endless narratives about
Egypt and Sir Ralph.

During that evening, from a thousand little
circumstances which it is needless to rehearse, it was
evident to Ronald that Louis Lisle was deeply
enamoured of the beautiful Virginia; and that she was
not unfavourable to him was also manifest, although
she took every means to conceal it: but Ronald had
a sharp eye for these matters.  What the opinion of
the proud old duke might be on such a subject it
was not difficult to say; and his conscience would
not in the least have prevented him from employing
the poniard of some matador to rid his family of
such a suitor.  However, his mind was at that
moment too much taken up with political schemes to
permit him to observe the growing passion between
his daughter and the young Scottish subaltern, to
whom twenty days' residence in his palace had given
every opportunity to press his suit that a lover
could desire.

The party at the De T—— palace broke up about
eleven o'clock, and ruminating on the probabilities
of Louis's winning the donna, should he really
propose for her hand, Ronald passed slowly through
the marble square, and down a street leading
towards his billet, which was near the Calle Mayor.
A gush of light, streaming into the darkness through
the open portal and traceried windows of an illuminated
chapel, invited him to enter, in expectation of
beholding some solemn religious ceremony; but the
building was entirely empty, and the blaze of light
proceeded from some hundreds of tapers burning
around the gilded shrine of the patron saint of
Aranjuez.  From this spot a strong flood of crimson
light glared through the nave and chancel, tinging
with the hue of blood the black marble pavement,
the slender pillars, and the groined roof of fretted
stone work.  Many mouldy portraits of saints
adorned the walls; around the lighted shrine were
hung certain strange memorials, placed there by
the piety of those whom the saint was supposed
to have cured.  Crutches, even wooden legs and
many stucco casts of deformed limbs, were there
displayed, all doubtless the work of cunning priests,
to impose upon the credulity of the Spaniards.  But
what chiefly raised his wonder, was some hundred
little images of children, with which the place was
absolutely crowded.

His attention was next attracted by several standards,
the trophies of war, which hung from the
highest part of the chapel, where the roof rose
somewhat in the form of a dome.  These belonged
to various nations; and one, by the crescents on it,
he judged to be Moorish; but the other two he
remarked more particularly.  The one was the
ensign of a British ship of war which had been
wrecked on the coast of Spain; the other was an
ancient Scottish standard of white silk, crossed with
St. Andrew's blue cross, and splendidly embroidered
with silver thistles.  About the latter he could not
obtain the least information, although he made every
inquiry next day.  But it was probably the regimental
colour of some of the Scottish auxiliaries who
served in the Low Countries against the Emperor
Charles the Fifth.  Ronald was revolving in his own
mind the means of capturing or destroying both
these standards, when the entrance of the Condé
de Truxillo diverted him from his purpose, and saved
to the Spaniards those trophies which most likely
still adorn the chapel royal of Aranjuez.

"What adventure are you in search of now, senor,
that you have not yet sought your billet in the
Calle Mayor?"

"I understand," replied the condé, "that the
Carbineros of Medina del Campo marched into
Aranjuez about sun-set.  I have a very dear brother, an
officer in them, and I am searching for some one to
direct me to his quarters, late as the hour is.
Manuel and I were very dear friends in youth, being
educated together at our old castle near Truxillo;
but we have not seen each other for six years, as
our regiments have always campaigned in different
provinces.  He was a slender youth, without a hair
on his lip when I saw him last, but now he must
be a stout and well-whiskered cavalier.  Ah, how
much I long to behold him!"

"I regret, condé, that I can give you no information
as to where the quarters of the Carbineros are.
Some of the quarter-guards may perhaps inform you."

"Ho! senor Stuart," exclaimed Truxillo, as his
eye fell on the shrine with all its little images and
blazing tapers.  "Lo, you now! behold what rogues
our padres are.  Do you know the meaning of all
these images?"

"No.  I own I was somewhat puzzled to discover."

"Well, senor," answered Truxillo with a loud
laugh, "all these are the images of children born
unto ladies who had long pined for them before
they had visited this miraculous shrine,—so the
monks tell us."

"Strange, if true."

"Its reputed sanctity is truly amazing; and all
the dames of old and new Castile, Leon, and
Arragon consider a visit to this place a sovereign
remedy.  They are shown the tomb of the saint in
the vaults below; and its influence, aided by the
attentions of a few stout padres, certainly has brought
about singular cures; and——  But here comes my
servant; he has been searching for the quarters of
the Carbineros, and will——  Hah!" exclaimed
Truxillo, his countenance changing as a servant
belonging to the De T—— family entered the chapel, "do
you seek me?"

The servant, who wore the orange-coloured livery
of the duke, replied by whispering something into
the ear of Don Balthazzar, whose "brow grew black
as thunder."

"*Falsificador!* madman! what is this you have
dared to tell me?" he exclaimed, furiously grasping
the menial by the throat.

"The solemn truth, most noble condé.  Release
me!  San Juan in the wilderness could not speak
more truly.  I am faithful to you,—I am, by the
virgin!—Oh—"  It is probable the fellow would
never have spoken again, had not Ronald released
his neck from the clutch of the condé.

"Cavalier!" exclaimed the latter, seizing
Ronald's hand, "I know you to be brave and honourable
as man can be.  I have been basely betrayed
this night.  Will you follow me, that I may recover
my lost honour, or perish?  A deadly insult has been
offered to me."

"I pledge you my word I will, Balthazzar.  But
what has this trembling blockhead told you?"

"Satanas! that Donna Olivia, to whom not an
hour ago I plighted my love and troth, has even
now a cavalier in her chamber."

"Impossible; he lies!"

"He does not—I know that he does not.  I have
bribed him to watch his mistress, and have long
found him faithful.  But Olivia, false and base
Olivia!  I have long suspected her falsehood and
coquetry, and this night I will fearfully revenge them
both upon herself.  It must be Carlos Avallo.
Malediction!  I will slay him before her face.  By our
Lady of the Rock! my most sacred oath, I swear it!"

Balthazzar rushed away from the chapel, and Stuart
followed to prevent him, if possible, from committing
any outrage, and pursued him through the dark
streets at his utmost speed.  In a few seconds they
stood before the mansion they had quitted but a
short time ago.  It was completely involved in
darkness, save one room, from the windows of which a
light straggled through the white curtains upon the
balcony from which they had witnessed the bull-fight.

"The sisters sleep in separate apartments; that
is Olivia's," whispered Truxillo, in a voice husky
with the passions which possessed his heart.  "Did
you not see a tall shadow pass the window?"

"Let me entreat you, noble condé, to stay—to
hold but for a single moment!"

"*Carajo!* may it be my last if I do!" replied
the other fiercely, as he grasped a carved stone
ornament projecting from the wall, and swung himself
into the balcony, where he drew his sword, and
applied his eye to the opening of the window curtains.
Apprehensive that he might commit some rash deed,
Ronald followed him, but with infinite trouble, rage
having enabled the condé to climb by means which
the other could not find.  He was not without some
secret fears that this rival cavalier might be Louis
Lisle, and grasping Truxillo by the arm, he detained
him by main force; and had the parties within been
less occupied with themselves than they were, they
must undoubtedly have heard the half-muttered
threats of Balthazzar, and the scuffling which
ensued on the balcony.

Through the half-opened casement they surveyed
the chamber and its occupants.  The sleeping-place
of the donna was certainly a splendid one; the hangings,
the chairs, the bed, and covering of the estrado,
raised at one end of the floor, were all of white
or rose-coloured velvet, fringed and embroidered
with gold, and every thing else was of corresponding
richness.  A lamp, the globe of which was of
rose-coloured glass, shed a warm light through the
apartment; and three large vases of fresh flowers, placed
on the verge of the *estrado*, gave forth an agreeable
perfume.  In a splendid easy-chair, which glittered
with gilding and gilt nails, the beautiful Olivia was
seated near her toilet-table,—the looseness of her
dress and the disorder of her ringlets showing that
she had been preparing for repose before her visitor
had entered by the window, a place of ingress used
oftener than the door by Spanish lovers.  An officer
in a Spanish cavalry uniform was kneeling at her
feet, and his cloak and helmet lay on the floor near
him.

"Lo! holy Virgin, a pretty piece of daring," said
the lady as they approached the window.

"Pardon me, beautiful one!" said the officer;
"and remember, that if I had not visited you thus,
I might never have seen you at all."

"And what then, senor?"

"Cruel Olivia! can you trifle with a passion so
earnest as mine?"

"A pretty fellow, to visit me like a bravo by
the window, with a sword in your hand.  This will
teach me to bolt my shutters more securely.  Come
now, senor, I have heard quite enough of this: you
must retire.  *O santos!* should you be seen!"

"Heartless Olivia! and you bid me leave you thus?"

"Heartless?  You are mighty gallant, *mi amigo*!"

"Remember that we march to-morrow, and I
may never see you again."

"Well, I suppose I shall not want for a husband.
The Condé of Truxillo, Pedro de Esquivias, or
Carlos Avallo will, any of them, be glad to have me
when I choose.  O 'tis a gay thing to be loved by
many cavaliers!  But leave me, I intreat—no,
command you!" said the lady, curling up her black
tresses with her white slender fingers.

"Grant me but a single kiss, Olivia, and I will
retire never to trouble you again.  I will seek death
in our first encounter with the enemy."

"You love yourself too well for that."

"Grant me but one salute, and I leave you.  Oh,
after all the misery of my long year's absence, do
not refuse me that!"

"Take it, thou false *picaro*, and be gone," replied
the coquettish girl, pouting her cherry mouth,
towards which the cavalier advanced his well-moustached lip.

"Perish first!" exclaimed the enraged Truxillo,
rushing forward and driving his sword through the
back and breast of the unfortunate lover.  "Die in
your audacity, whoever you are, you false interloper!
Die, villain!" he added, repeating the stab;
and the cavalier died without a groan.  "Farewell
for ever, false Olivia," cried the savage condé; "and
remember that my love, unworthy as you are of it,
alone protects you from the effects of my fury and
disappointment!"  He was about to leave the place,
when his eye fell upon the countenance of the
cavalier he had so ruthlessly and rashly slain.  He was
now lying stark and dead, the blood from his
wounds streaming over the oaken floor of the room.
Truxillo groaned deeply, and striking his forehead,
staggered back, dropping his sword, while his
countenance became pale and livid.

"*El Espiritu Santo santissimo!  O Dios mio!*"
he cried in a husky voice, the tone of which was
heart-piercing and horrible, "I have slain my
brother,—my brave brother!  *O Manuel el
Carbinero*,—is it you I have murdered?  Ten thousand
maledictions blast you, false woman! blast you, and
follow you to all eternity!  'Tis you have wrought me
this deadly sin!"  And rushing into the balcony he
sprung into the street, leaving Ronald in the
apartment of the lady, standing irresolute and stupified
with amazement at the suddenness of this catastrophe,
which came to pass in less time than I have
taken to record it.  Olivia, whose voice had at first
failed her in the extremity of her terror, now
shrieked long and loudly to arouse the household, which
she did so effectually, that in three minutes they
were all mustered in her chamber, armed with all
sorts of weapons, and among others Lisle with his
drawn sword.  Great indeed was their astonishment
to see Ronald in the sleeping-room of Donna
Olivia at midnight, and an officer lying dead on the
floor, weltering in a pool of blood.  All
clamorously demanded an explanation of this singular
scene, and the indignation of the old duke it is
impossible to describe, such room was there for
scandal in the story of a cavalier being slain at
night in the bed-room of his daughter.  *Diavolo!* thought
he, all Spain, from Cape Ortegal to Gibraltar,
will be ringing with the tale!  Some of the females
attempted to recover the lady, who had sunk
on her bed in a swoon; while the others required
Ronald, in shrill tones of anger and surprise, to give
a detail of the matter.  This he hesitated to do, not
wishing to criminate the condé, and still less
wishing to be taken for the culprit himself.

In this dilemma the bustle and commotion were
increased by the arrival of a pompous old alcalde,
who dwelt opposite, and Senor Rubio, the notary,
with six alguazils, who were for arresting Ronald
on the instant; but, laying his hand on the hilt of
his dirk, he vowed to run through the heart the first
who laid a finger upon him; upon which the limbs
of the law, recoiling, began to handle the locks of
their heavy *trabucos*, and more blood would probably
have been shed had not the alcalde interfered.

This magistrate, whose person and authority the
duke had always treated with contempt, was very
glad to have opportunity of affronting him; and
assuming as much consequence as he could, he
administered an oath to Ronald in the Spanish
manner, by swearing him across his sword and dirk, and
then desiring him to relate what he knew of this
matter,—and word for word his relation was
committed to writing by the keen-eyed and sharp-visaged
little notary.  Englishmen might have doubted
the relation; but in Spain the words of an honourable
cavalier are not to be questioned, and the account
proving satisfactory to the alcalde, in so far as
concerned Ronald Stuart, he was permitted to retire;
while Senor Rubio, and the six men with blunderbusses,
were sent off in pursuit of the condé, whom
they discovered on his knees before the very shrine
he had made the subject of his jests an hour before.
Three days afterwards he was tried by a general
court-martial, composed of Spanish officers,—the
General de Costa being president.  Every man
supposed his death to be certain; but he was, strange
to say, acquitted.  Yet life was no boon to poor
Truxillo, who, being continually haunted by the
miserable death of his brother, became reckless of
existence, and by throwing himself madly in the
way of danger, endeavoured to perish in expiation
of the crime he had committed in the blindness of
his rage and jealousy.

This occurrence appeared for the present to be a
death-blow to the hopes of Louis Lisle.  On the
following day the duke quitted Aranjuez with his
family, retiring suddenly no one knew whither.  He
was so much enraged against Olivia, who indeed was
not to blame, that he threatened to disgrace her for
ever, by incarcerating her in the *Monasterio de los
Arrepentidas*\[\*] of Seville, but the tears and entreaties
of Donna Virginia made him change his intention:
the sisters were separated, and for ever.  Olivia was
sent off to Galicia, and confined in a solitary convent
among the wild ridges of the Sierra de Mondonedo,
where, if living, she probably still resides.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] A place of confinement for ladies who misbehave.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SKIRMISH OF FUENTE DUENNA.  THE LEAGUER OF ALBA DE TORMES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium bold white-space-pre-line

   THE SKIRMISH OF FUENTE DUENNA.  THE LEAGUER
   OF ALBA DE TORMES.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Comrades, should it please high Heaven
   |    That we see Castile once more,—
   |  Though we now go forth as outcasts,
   |    Sad, dishonoured, homeless, poor,—
   |  We'll return with glory laden,
   |    And the spoilings of the Moor."
   |                                *The Cid.*

.. vspace:: 2

About the middle of October the legions of
Marshals Jourdan and Soult, having formed a junction,
advanced, under the command of the latter, fifty
thousand strong, from Valencia on Madrid, and in a
short time arrived within a few leagues of Aranjuez.
Combining his forces with those of Generals Elio
and Freire, and with the Spaniards of Don Carlos de
Espagna, Sir Rowland Hill, at the head of forty
thousand well-tried soldiers, moved to meet them,
commencing his march from Aranjuez on the 23rd
of October.  Many a sorrowful farewell was said that
morning, and many a bright eye grew dim as the
retiring sound of the British drums died away among
the windings of the Tagus.  Crossing the latter,
immediately below the walls of the palace, the division
marched to Colmenare de Orijo, a town of Toledo.
Here different brigades were posted at the several
fords of the Tagus, by which Soult's infantry might
attempt to pass.  That at Fuente Duenna fell to
the lot of the first brigade.  On the second day after
their bivouacking there, a party of the enemy's
cavalry were seen approaching the river, either to cross
or reconnoitre.  The light company of the Gordon
Highlanders, and Captain Blacier's company of the
German rifles, were ordered to receive them at the
ford.  Unluckily for himself, Lisle accompanied "the
light bobs" on this occasion as a volunteer, in place
of an officer who was sick.  Seaton commanded
the whole, and he placed the companies in ambush
among some laurel-bushes, willows, and long reeds
which grew by the water-side, overlooking the place
where the dragoons must cross if such was their
intention.  The Highlanders knelt down on the right
knee, but the Germans, who were posted among the
reeds, lay flat on the ground, and levelled their
short rifles over the glazed tops of their shakoes,
which they placed before them.  All were ready
to let fly a volley among the unsuspecting Frenchmen,
who came forward at a gallop with their
carbines unslung.  The party consisted of nearly eighty
heavy dragoons.  An officer of cuirassiers and two
others in staff uniform accompanied them.  They
drew their bridles at the brink of the river, and from
his place of concealment Stuart recognised his friend
De Mesmai in the cuirassier; and in one of the staff
officers Monsieur Law, the Baron de Clappourknuis,
in the other their late host at Aranjuez, the Duke of
Alba de T——.

"Stuart," whispered Lisle, "is it possible, that
the officer without the epaulets is really the duke?"

"Without doubt 'tis he."

"How base and treacherous!"

"He will receive the reward of his treason instantly.
It has always been whispered that he was false
to King Ferdinand and his allies.  A base wretch! to
join the invaders of Spain when so many brave
men are struggling with heart and hand to free her
from the grasp of the Buonapartes.  Evan, bring
that officer down.  Mark him when the word is
given to fire."

"Were he as fause as Menteith, an ounce o' cauld
leed will settle him," replied Evan, blowing some
loose powder from his lock.  "I'll tak' him canny,
and wing him aucht inches below the oxter,—that's
just in the belt."

"No, no, for God's sake!" whispered Louis to
Stuart.  "He is the father of Virginia de Alba, and
were he as false as Judas that would save him."

"Hush!" whispered Seaton, in the same low
tone; "they are conversing, and I should be glad
to hear the news from Valencia."

"*Monsieur le Duc* will perhaps be so good as to
inform us whereabouts this infernal bridge of Fuente
Duenna lies?" said De Mesmai.

"Ah!" chimed in the baron, in Spanish, "this is
the place marked by the marshal in his map."

"The bridge lies lower down the river," replied
the duke; "but there is a ford in this neighbourhood,
which I will have the honour to show you,
senores."

"Do so, in the devil's name!" replied De Mesmai
hastily, while he surveyed the duke with an
expression on his dark face which showed how much he
despised such an auxiliary, notwithstanding his rank.
"We have ridden quite far enough to see this ford,
and when you have shown it to the baron, I will
condescend to thank you."

"De Mesmai!" said the baron, holding up his
hand warningly.

"Bah!  *Monsieur le Baron*,—I comprehend; the
British may look for a visit in the morning, which
will yield them more danger than delight.  With
your permission, Monsieur Law, after reconnoitring
this ford we will retire as soon as possible, because
I little like riding here in such open ground.  These
bushes opposite might contain a thousand riflemen,
or some of your bare-legged brethren, than whom
I would rather face the devil.  I have provided a
white stake to drive into the ground, which will
mark the ford for Lamorciere's chasseurs, who lead
the way in our attack on Hill's troops to-night."

"Colonel Lamorciere shall be welcome," said
Seaton, as De Mesmai moved his horse along the
bank of the river, chanting gaily an old rondeau
beginning with,—

   |    *"Pauvres Anglais!*
   |  *Vous n'avez que de l'arrogance,*
   |    *Pauvres Anglais" &c. &c.*

At that moment the Highland bugle-boy, who knelt
by Beaton's side, sounded "*fire!*"

The bugle of the Germans answered on the left,
and a deadly volley, which enveloped the whole
place in smoke, was poured upon the French, nearly
one half of whom fell from their saddles.  Horses
were seen galloping off in all directions, dragging
their riders by the stirrup, or leaving them dead or
dying on the ground.  The traitor dashed his spurs
into his horse's flanks and fled at full gallop,
followed by the baron.  But not so De Mesmai, whom this
unexpected volley had filled with the utmost
astonishment and ferocity, although it struck a
temporary panic into the dragoons.

"Revenge! *mes camarades*.  Follow me,—charge!
By the name of the bomb!  I will cleave to the
gorget the first dastard who attempts to fly.  *Vive
l'Empereur*!  Forward—charge!"

Animated by his example they crossed the ford at
a gallop, dashing the water right and left; and
forcing their horses up to the bank, even while exposed
to a hot fire, they fell furiously with hoof and blade
among the scattered Highlanders.  It was a piece of
unexampled daring for a few dragoons to cross a
river thus, under a hot fire from concealed musquetry.

"*Vive l'Empereur*!  No quarter to the Germans!"
shouted De Mesmai, leaping his horse over the
underwood.

"Form square!" cried the deep and manly voice
of Seaton.  "Rally—rally!  Quick, Highlanders,
or you will be cut to pieces!  Close to the centre,
Germans and all; blow 'the assembly,' bugler!
Hurrah, my lads!  Shoulder to shoulder, Highlandmen!
and give them the bayonet."  With the speed of
thought a rallying square was formed.  Blacier's
Germans and the Highlanders mingled, the long
cross-hilted daggers of the former acting efficiently
as bayonets when fixed to the muzzles of their
rifles.  Ronald, while dressing, as it is technically
termed, one of the faces of the square, narrowly
escaped a cut aimed at him by a dragoon, who was
instantly shot by Angus Mackie, a private next to
him; and Seaton had the feathers of his bonnet
sheered away by a stroke from De Mesmai's sword.
But the cavalry seldom came within a pike's length
of them; the stunted brushwood, the broken nature
of the ground, and the prostrate men and horses
encumbered their advance, while the steady fire
of the little square disheartened and disconcerted
them.  After two brave attempts to break the band
of infantry, De Mesmai was compelled to recross the
ford, leaving sixty dragoons killed or wounded
behind him.  Notwithstanding the hasty nature of
their retreat, the twenty who retired with him cut
down and carried off several of the straggling
riflemen, dragging them across their holster-flaps by
main strength of arm.  Some of these they were
soon compelled to drop, when galled in retreat by
the fire of the victorious light infantry, who again
lined the bank, and kept blazing away so long as
they were within range.

"Well done 60th!" exclaimed Seaton, as he
mustered the companies together.  "'Tis hard to say
whether the green jackets or the tartan kilts have
distinguished themselves most this morning.
Lamorciere's chasseurs will have need of other guides
than the dragoons, if they visit the ford to-night."

"Ech!  Capitan Seetun, ve hab gibben dem *der
teufels braden* for breakfast,—ech, ech!" replied
Blacier, cramming a quantity of tobacco into
the bowl of a huge pipe, which he had pulled from
the mouth of a Serjeant and transferred to his
own.  "Someting more betterer dan *wahr-sagen*
vill show dem de foord dis nicht,—de dragoons
scarcely vill."

"No; I believe not, Blacier, my old boy!
I shall recommend you to the notice of Sir Rowland
in my account of this affair.  You have long
deserved the brevet."

"*Der teufel hole dich*!  I tink so.  Much
obleege—much obleege to you."

The Germans had suffered a little in this skirmish,
several having been sabred by the French; but only
two Highlanders were killed, and these by carbine
shots.  Every where around the ground was strewed
with helmets, holsters, sabres, carbines, and the
bodies of men and of horses, rolling about in agony,
or lying motionless and still in death.  Sometimes a
head, a boot and spur, or a gauntletted hand rose
above the clear current of the Tagus, and then sunk
for ever, as some wounded straggler was swept down
by the stream.  All the arms and accoutrements
lying scattered about were, in conformity with
the usual practice, dashed to pieces and completely
destroyed by the victors.

"We have escaped easily in this affair," said
Seaton, as he mustered his light company, "only
a file of men killed; it might have been otherwise,
had we formed square less promptly.  You have
done well, my gallant green feathers; you will get
an extra ration of grog for this morning's work!"  The
Highlanders responded by a cheer.

"The Germans have lost many; they lie pretty
thick by the water-side."

"Owing to their own want of alacrity in
answering the bugle-call.  Many of them have their heads
cloven down, even through the thick shako."

"This will teach the survivors to be smarter in
future.  But where is Lisle?"

"Stuart, by all that is sacred he has fallen into
the hands of the enemy!"

"He was close beside me at the moment the
bugle sounded to form square, and I have not seen
him since."

"I am afraid, sir, Mr. Lisle is either killed or
taen awa' prisoner," said Serjeant Macrone, whose
bare knee was streaming with blood, which he
endeavoured to stanch by a piece of tartan rent from
a plaid.

"I saw him stagger under the stroke of a sabre
at the moment the dragoons broke frae the bushes
amang us," observed another serjeant, advancing
his pike.

"And has any man seen him since?" asked Stuart
of the company breathlessly.  Angus Mackie and
several others replied that they had, but their
statements differed so much, that it was impossible to
come to any conclusion.  One declared he had seen
him killed "by a cloure on the croon, and that he
never moved after it;" another stated that he slew
the dragoon who wounded him, but all agreed that
he had never gained the shelter of the rallying square.
Evan Iverach declared, that "as sure as death he
saw puir Maister Lisle grippit by the craigie, and
dragged awa' by the officer of the cuirassiers."  This
last statement appeared the most probable, as no
traces of poor Louis could be discovered on the
ground save his sword and bonnet; and Stuart had
a dim recollection of seeing a red uniform among
the few prisoners whom De Mesmai's dragoons
succeeded in carrying off amid the smoke and confusion.

From Villa Corrijos Ronald next day wrote to
Alice, giving an account of her brother's capture in
the skirmish at Fuente Duenna; and while he
deplored the event, he said not a word of his fears
that he was desperately wounded.  He had very
little doubt that he must have been so, otherwise
De Mesmai, strong and muscular as he was, would
have found it no easy task to carry off Louis in the
singular manner he did.

Sir Rowland Hill, on discovering that King Joseph
and Marshal Soult were manoeuvring to outflank
him, prepared instantly to frustrate their intentions,
and give them battle.  Making forced marches by
day and night at the head of the British, Spanish,
and Portuguese troops he had collected together,
he skilfully took up a strong position in front of
Aranjuez, intending there to await the arrival of
the enemy.

The troops passed the Puento Largo at midnight.
A detachment of miners were making preparations
to blow it up, and their red lights, burning under the
ancient arches and twinkling on the sluggish waters
of the Jacama, presented a singular appearance
as the regiments marched above them towards the
hills, where the position was taken before day-break.
But no battle ensued.  A despatch arrived from the
Marquess of Wellington, saying that he had been
forced temporarily to abandon the siege of Burgos,
and order an immediate retreat into winter-quarters
in Leon and Estremadura,—a sad and most unlooked-for
reverse of fortune to the army, who had driven
the enemy before them into Valencia and the
northern provinces.  Marching through the wide and
fertile plains, in the midst of which rises Madrid,
the second division commenced its retreat in
obedience to this order.  Passing close by the walls or
earthen defences of the Spanish capital, they
bivouacked at the distance of a league from it.  There
was no time to pitch tents, and the troops lay on
the ground without them, exposed to all the misery
of a most tempestuous night of wind and rain.  Next
night they were more comfortably lodged in the
village and spacious palace of the Escurial.  Ronald's
light company were quartered in the royal chapel,
a building which contains the tombs of all the
Spanish monarchs, from Charles the Fifth down to
the present age.  Crossing the Guadarama, or sandy
river, at a village of the same name, the great
mountain was ascended, through which lies the famous
Guadarama Pass, and from which an extensive view
of the surrounding country is obtained.

The mountains were growing dark as the setting
sun, enveloped in dun clouds, sank far behind them,
and the effect of the scenery was considerably
heightened by the march of so many thousand
men,—cavalry, infantry, and artillery, up the
winding pathway among the silent and solitary defiles,
disappearing, section after section, with colours
waving and arms glittering, down the deep pass of the
Guadarama.  Afar off on the plains of Madrid,
leagues in their rear, clouds of dust rolling along
the green landscape, marked where the pursuing
squadrons and battalions of Soult followed the route
of Sir Rowland with precision and rapidity.

On the 8th November, to cover the retreat of the
whole army, and to stay Soult's advance, the first
brigade was ordered to defend, to the last extremity,
the town of Alba de Tormes, near the eastern
borders of the ancient kingdom of Leon; a forlorn sort
of duty, when it is remembered that so small a
band were to oppose the concentrated French army,
90,000 strong, I believe.  On being reinforced by
General Hamilton's Portuguese brigade, and two
companies of Spaniards under the Condé de Truxillo,
every means were taken to render the place as
strong as possible by erecting trenches and
barricading the streets,—almost useless precautions, as
the town, which lies low, is commanded by two
adjacent heights.  Its appearance, when the brigade
entered it, was indeed miserable and desolate, having
been completely deserted by the inhabitants, into
whose hearts the retreat of the British and the
advance of the French had stricken terror.

The soldiers had tasted nothing for thirty-six
hours, and although drenched with rain, and
wearied by a hard and forced march, had to remain
under arms around the old and ruinous Moorish wall
of Alba, during a very chill November night.  About
dawn, as no enemy had yet appeared, after guards
had been posted, the troops were dismissed to take up
their quarters in the dreary and empty houses, where
every thing had been carried off or destroyed by the
inhabitants before their flight.  The drizzling rain
which had fallen during the night had drenched them
to the skin, but a dry article of clothing was not to
be had, as the baggage was far away on the road
to the rear.  However, doors and shutters were torn
down from the houses, and blazing fires kindled on
the tiled floors, around which officers and soldiers
crowded together without ceremony.  Another day
of starvation was before them,—untold gold could
not have produced an ounce of flour in Alba.  At
night, by the great exertions of the commissary,
some horse-beans were procured, and a handful given
to every man; but early next morning some muleteers
arrived from Corde Villar, bringing a few small
bags of flour, which were received with wild
demonstrations of thankfulness and joy by the starving
brigade.

Every man who could bake was set to work, and
the ovens were speedily filled with tommies, as the
poor fellows designated their loaves, and expectant
crowds, with eager eyes and hollow cheeks, stood
waiting around the bake-house doors.

The hot and smoking bread was scarcely brought
forth for equal distribution before the bugles sounded,
and the distant reports of carbines announced that
the enemy were coming on; and the picquet of the
9th light dragoons, posted in front of the town, had
begun to retire before the heavy cavalry of Soult.
"Stand to your arms!" was now the cry on all
sides, and a scramble and uproar ensued among the
soldiers at the ovens.  The hot loaves were torn to
pieces in handfuls and scattered about, and many
who had fasted for eight-and-forty hours, (the repast
of horse-beans excepted,) received nothing, while too
much fell to the share of others.

Ronald was unfortunately among the former, as it
was impossible for an officer to struggle for a
mouthful of food among the men, and until that day he
never knew what it was to experience the utmost
extremity of hunger.  But there was no help for it
then; and venting a hearty malediction on the Duke
of Dalmatia, he joined the light company, which
lined a part of the Moorish wall facing the direction in
which the enemy were momently expected to appear.
The trenches, barricades, and other hastily-erected
works were manned, and two hundred of the Highland
light infantry were placed in the ancient castle
of Alba, a lofty round tower built by the Moors.  The
rest of the troops, not engaged in lining the walls,
occupied those streets which would protect them
from the view and fire of the enemy; and General
Howard ordered a part of the regiment of sappers
to undermine the bridge over the Tormes, which at
Alba is both deep and rapid, to the end that it might
be blown up, to cut off the pursuit of the enemy
when the British were compelled to abandon the
town.  The light dragoons, retiring through Alba,
halted on the other side of the river to await the
event, and immediately afterwards Soult's advance
came in sight.

A company of infantry, the head of a column,
appeared between the two hills which overlook Alba.
They were beyond the range of musquetry, and
halting there, they ordered arms and stood at ease.
Shortly afterwards a staff-officer, wearing a glazed
cocked-hat and green uniform, and mounted on a
spotless white steed, descended at a trot towards the
town, and with the most perfect coolness walked his
horse slowly before the wall, which was lined by the
50th and Highlanders, riding within fifty yards of
their musquets, a distance at which, had they fired,
he must undoubtedly have been slain.

"A devilish cool fellow!" said Seaton.  "He jogs
easily along, looking every moment as if he expected
a shot was coming to spoil his impertinent reconnoitring."

A murmur and cries of "Tak him doon! tak him
doon!  Gie him his kail through the reek," arose
among the Highlanders, who began to look to their
flints and priming.

"Weel would I like to gie that chield's pride a
fa'!" said Angus Mackie, cocking his musquet.
"The blind hauf hunder' surely ha'na seen him.
Dearsake, Captain Seaton! just say the word,—will
I fire?"

"Why,—I know no objection," said Seaton, looking
inquiringly towards Cameron, who was standing
on foot near an angle of the trench, with old Dugald
Mhor beside him holding his charger by the bridle.
"Colonel, some of my fellows are anxious to fire;
shall I permit them?  I have some deadly shots in
the light company.  Monsieur's reconnoissance will
end the instant Angus fires upon him."

"Shame on you, Highlanders!" exclaimed Cameron,
his eyes beginning to sparkle as usual when
he was excited.  "Would you fire on a solitary
individual, who cannot return you a shot?  He is a
brave soldier although a rash one, and I will never
permit such a deed to be done.  Keep steady, men;
you will have firing enough in a short time."

The light company were abashed, and the life of
the Frenchman was saved,—a piece of generous
clemency which Cameron soon had reason to repent.
The staff-officer, continuing at the same deliberate
pace, ascended one of the heights, where he was
joined by an orderly on foot, who by his directions
was seen to place eleven stones, equi-distant, around
the summit.  Descending past the head of the
infantry column in the valley, he ascended the other
eminence, and there the same movements were
performed; after which they disappeared to the rear.

That French officer, who so narrowly escaped
death, was MARSHAL SOULT,—the great Duke of
Dalmatia himself, as one of his own despatches,
which a few days afterwards fell into the hands
of our troops, sufficiently testified.

Scarcely had he withdrawn, before twenty-two
pieces of artillery, each drawn by four horses,
ascended the heights at full gallop, and took their
ground at the several marks which Marshal Soult
had laid.  In an instant the gunners leaped from
their seats; the guns were wheeled round, with their
yawning muzzles pointed to Alba; the horses were
untraced, the limbers cast off, and with the speed of
thought the cannoniers, all stout fellows, wearing
high grenadier caps, grey great-coats with large red
epaulets, were seen hard at work with sponge and
rammer, charging home the cannon.  Their active
figures were seen more distinctly by the yellow light
shed across the sky by the morning sun, the rays of
which shone merrily on the glistening Tormes, the
brown autumnal woods, the mouldering walls and
desolate streets of Alba, where soon the work of
death was to begin.

"Well, colonel," said Seaton, "what think you of
this gay preparation?  We shall have sixteen-pounders
and long nines flying like hailstones in a minute
more.  You will scarcely rejoice at allowing
the white steed to carry off its rider with a whole
skin."

Cameron bit his lips, and his fiery eyes flashed;
but he made no reply.

"Hech!" muttered an old Highlander; "it's a
true sayin' at hame—Glum folk are no easy guided.
Ta cornel's been makin' a fule o' hersel the day
before the morn; hoomch!"

"Keep close under your walls and trenches, lads,"
cried Campbell, who was watching the heights
through a telescope levelled across the saddle of his
horse.  "Keep close; but never duck down when
a ball comes: as old Sir Ralph used to say, 'it looks
d—ned unsoldierlike.'  Here comes a shot."

A flash, and a wreath of white smoke, announced
the first cannon-ball, which, striking the wall of a
house, brought a mass of masonry tumbling into the
street.  Whiz came a second, and a third, and a
fourth,—all in quick succession.  The French
cannonade commenced then in good earnest, and continued
incessantly from ten in the morning until five in the
afternoon,—firing thirteen hundred round of shot and
shell, and perhaps to so hot a discharge of cannon
so small a body of troops, in such a defenceless
place, were never subjected before.  Without the
least intermission it continued for seven hours, and
even then the enemy only ceased to cool their guns,
and await the completion of a plan formed by Soult
for surrounding and completely cutting off the
defenders of Alba.  It was a miracle that every man in
the place was not destroyed; but the enemy chiefly
expended their shot on a large empty convent, which
they supposed to be full of soldiers, and in
consequence levelled it to the foundations.

One sixteen-pounder came whizzing amongst the
light company, and, striking the breast-work of loose
earth, buried Seaton and a section of men under it;
and a hearty laugh arose from the regiment, as they
scrambled out of the trench, shaking off the soil and
turf which had covered them up.

Although shot were crashing, shells bursting,
and houses falling incessantly for seven consecutive
hours, only about fifty Highlanders were killed.
The loss of the other corps I have never ascertained,
but the streets were every where strewed with
the dead.  Many of the wounds were beyond
conception frightful, being all by cannon-shot or
bomb-splinters, tearing absolutely to pieces those they
struck, and shearing off legs and arms like withered
reeds.  Macildhui, a Serjeant, was killed as Ronald
was delivering some orders to him.  His head was
carried away like an egg-shell, and his brains were
spattered over the pavement.  Night was closing,
and the enemy's guns were still in position on the
heights, from which another iron dose was expected
in the morning, when an aide-de-camp from Salamanca,
covered from plume to spur with dust, dashed
into the town at full gallop, and informed General
Howard that 3,000 French cavalry had forded
the Tormes some miles above Alba, that his position
was turned, and that the Marquess of Wellington
desired he would abandon the town without a
moment's delay, otherwise the first brigade were
lost men.  The order was instantly given to decamp,
and the place was quitted double-quick, the troops
moving through those streets which concealed their
movements from Soult, and forming in close columns
on the other side of the Tormes to be in readiness for
the cavalry, should they make their appearance.  To
deceive the French marshal, the sentries were kept
on the walls until the last moment; and Stuart, with
ten light-company men, was sent to "bring them off."

"Farewell, senor!' cried Truxillo, waving his
sabre to Ronald over the battlements of the ancient
Moorish tower, which he had volunteered to defend
to the last with his two companies of Castilians,
to cover the retreat of Howard's and Hamilton's
brigade.

"Adieu, gallant condé!" answered Ronald, as he
passed beneath the walls with his party.  It was the
last time he ever beheld him.  By the sound of his
silver whistle he collected the Highland sentinels
from all points.  These, with Major-general Howard,
Wemyss, the brigade-major, and Ronald himself,
were the last men who quitted the ruins of Alba.
The mounted officers rode at a trot, and the heavily
laden infantry followed double-quick, with their
musquets at the trail.  The moment the bridge was
cleared the sappers sprung the mine: a roar like that
of thunder shook the current of the Tormes, and a
cloud of dust and stones rose into the air.  Ronald,
who was severely bruised by the falling fragments,
cast a glance behind as he hurried along.  The
bridge was a mass of ruins.  The Spanish flag was
waving from the round tower of Alba, which was
now enveloped in smoke, and flashes of musquetry
broke from it on all sides as the forlorn band of the
condé opened a sharp fire from the rampart and
loopholes upon a dense and dark column of French
infantry, which was seen descending rapidly towards
the town, with tri-colours flying, and brass drums
beating in that peculiar manner by which the French
regulate the quick step.  After a desperate resistance,
Truxillo and his Castilians were captured; but the
sound of the firing was long heard by the brigade
as it retreated in squares along the road for Ciudad
Rodrigo, thus completely frustrating Soult's design
to enclose and cut them off by his cavalry, who
appeared in about half an hour, and met with so
desperate a resistance that they were compelled to retire
with immense loss.

That night the brigade halted on the skirts of a
cork wood, five leagues distant from Alba de Tormes.
The half-leafless branches afforded but a poor
protection from the rain, which continued to pour
without cessation until day-break, when the weary march
was recommenced.

It was indeed a night of misery!  Although worn
out with fatigue and hunger, it was impossible to
sleep on the wet ground, on which the rushing rain
was descending in drops larger than peas; and almost
equally impossible to stand, after what had been
endured for some days past,—marching from dawn
till sunset laden with seventy-five pounds weight,
and fasting for six-and-thirty, or eight-and-forty
consecutive hours.  Cursing themselves and their fate,
many of the soldiers were so disheartened at the
retreat, and the miseries they had undergone since
they left Aranjuez, that they were often heard aloud
"wishing to Heaven their brains had been blown
out in Alba!"

Ronald, being sent on out-picquet, lost even the
slight shelter afforded by the wood; but the soldiers
had lighted prodigious fires, upon which even the
power of the rain was lost; and seated by one, he
passed a sleepless night, listening to the rain-drops
sputtering in the flames, and to the hoarse croaking
of frogs in a neighbouring marsh.  During the night
it was discovered that the wood was the lair of wild
pigs, and a regular hunt ensued; by which means
scores were shot during the glimpses of moonlight.
As fast as they were killed they were quartered, and
served out to the men, who crowded round the fires,
broiling them on their bayonets and long steel
ramrods.  Major Campbell, who was a keen sportsman,
and had been accustomed to shoot by moonlight at
home, exerted himself so well, that with his own
hand he shot five, and brought them to the bivouac,
where he threw them among the soldiers.  The
out-picquets had been puzzled to comprehend the
meaning of the firing within the wood, and Ronald was
agreeably surprised by his servant bringing him a
slice of wild pork, famously fried in a camp-kettle
lid, and with it a *berengena* (a fruit of the cucumber
genus) which he had found in the wood and reserved
for his master, although almost perishing for want of
nourishment himself.  But the instances of Evan's
fidelity are innumerable.

The contents of the camp-kettle were shared
between master and man, without ceremony, and
without the absence of salt or other seasoning being
perceived.

For this affair of pig-shooting in the cork wood,
the commander-in-chief took the opportunity to tell
the army, in a general order, that they had degenerated
into "a lawless banditti," and that, without
having suffered the least privation, they were in a
state of mutiny and disorder.  This taunting and
bitter address is still remembered with peculiar
annoyance by the few survivors of that brave army.

But, to return to the unhappy and unlooked-for
retreat from Burgos, privations the troops *did* suffer,
(and I say so, in defiance of that general order,) and
privations such as soldiers never endured before or
since.  Continuing their rapid retreat across the
frontier, on the evening of the 19th of November, the first
brigade entered the miserable village of Robledo,
in Leon; and as the soldiers halted and formed line
in the street, pale, exhausted, wayworn, famished,
and absolutely in rags,—shirtless, shoeless, and
penniless, they seemed more like an assemblage of gaunt
spectres than British men.  Ronald's shirt had not
been changed for ten days, nor had his beard been
shaven for the same period.  His shoes were
completely worn away, and his bare feet had been cut
and wounded by the flinty ground, while his uniform
hung in fritters about him.  Every officer was in the
same predicament.

The military chest was empty, the stores exhausted.
The cavalry and artillery horses perished in scores
for want of forage; and during the whole retreat
from Alba de Tormes to Robledo, the soldiers had
fared on scanty rations of tough beef, horse-beans,
acorns and castanos picked up by the way-side; or
now and then, when the commissary could procure
it, a few handfuls of wheat served out to each officer
and private—unground.  On reaching their winter-quarters
thousands of soldiers died of sheer exhaustion,
or were invalided and sent home, to become
burdens to their friends, parishes, or themselves, for
the remainder of their lives.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ANGUS MACKIE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   ANGUS MACKIE.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "The bud comes back to summer,
   |    And the blossom to the tree;
   |  But I win back—oh, never!
   |    To my ain countrie.
   |
   |  I'm leal to the high heaven,
   |    Which will be leal to me;
   |  And there I'll meet ye a' sune,
   |    Frae my ain countrie."
   |                          *Scottish Song.*

.. vspace:: 2

In the beginning of the next month the Highlanders
were marched across the Sierra de Gate to
the ancient city of Coria, in Estremadura, where
they were to remain until they had recovered from
their late fatigues, and received recruits, clothing,
supplies, and arrears of pay from Lisbon.  While on
the march across the sierra, Evan's comrade, Angus
Mackie, a soldier of whom I have made frequent
mention, deserted from the light company, and,
singularly enough, was discovered to have gone off in
the direction of the enemy,—a circumstance which
exasperated the whole regiment against him.  But
the true reason of poor Mackie's disappearance soon
afterwards came to light.

On the second day after their arrival at Coria,
the mail bags were brought from the rear, and
Ronald, who was on guard with twenty Highlanders
at one of the four gates of the city, was much
annoyed at being unable to inquire if any letters had
come for him, and he passed the whole day in a
disagreeable state of expectation and excitement.
In the evening the guards were relieved, and he
hurried to his billet, which was situated in one of
the narrow and gloomy streets leading from the
market-place towards the cathedral.  At the door
he was met by Evan, who informed him that "twa
letters frae hame were awaiting him in his room.
Major Campbell had left them there some time
before."

"Foolish!  Why did you not bring them to the
guard-house?"

"But alake, sir! there isna ane for me," said
Evan, without minding the question.  "My faither
micht hae sent me ae screed, and I houp that
naething waur than the broon coo—(as he ay ca'd the
yill), or a wee drap ower muckle o' the barley bree,
have keepit him fraed."

"A light, Evan! a light! this place is very dark,"
cried Ronald to his retainer, who had followed him
up stairs to hear what news the letter contained.

"Twa candles, sir," said he, as he lighted them.
"Twa, nae less.  By the alcalde's order, the auld
patron body has to furnish ye wi' twa,—which maks
ye 'as braw as the Laird o' Grant.'  Ye mind the
auld saying, I daur say?"

Ronald snatched the letters, and beheld with joy
and delight that one was from Alice,—the other
from his father.

"Poor Louis!" muttered he aloud; "how much
I wish that he was here!"  Ronald was absolutely
trembling with joy as he opened the letter and
prepared to read it.

He drew his chair close to the table, and raised
the snuffers to trim the candles; when, lo! the lights
were both blown out, and the snuffers flew from his
hand with a loud report.

"Gude guide us!" exclaimed Evan, astonished
at being so suddenly involved in darkness; but a
hearty malediction escaped Ronald, who was chafed
and infuriated with the delay this unexpected
circumstance caused.

"Light them again," cried he.  "Did you say
that Major Campbell had been waiting for me in
this room?"

"Ay, sir, a gay gude while,"

"Pshaw! this is some trick of his: he has put a
pinch of powder in the snuffers.  His practical joke
has been somewhat mis-timed.  Get me fresh
lights."  Although Ronald laughed heartily at this occurrence
afterwards, he was greatly enraged by it at the time,
and an age seemed to elapse before Evan brought
him the candles again.  Love-letters are interesting
to those only for whom they are designed, and it is
not my intention to give Miss Lisle's letter at length;
but the reader, if concerned about the matter, may
be assured that its contents were in every way just
what Ronald could have wished them,—save in
one part.  She expressed her joy to hear that Louis
was a prisoner, saying that he was "safer in France
than fighting in Spain," and that she almost wished
that Ronald himself might be captured likewise, to
keep him out of harm's way.

"Evan, Jessie Cavers begs again to be remembered
to you," said Ronald to his expectant
follower, as he closed the letter.

"Does she really, noo?  The dear lassie!" cried
he, snapping his fingers, while his eyes glistened
with delight; and he commenced a sort of strathspey
round the table.  "My ain bonnie blithesome
Jessie!  Mony a gloaming I have spent wi' her
among the sauch-tree woods o' Inchavon, and the
haughs o' the Isla.  Deil tak the wars and
campaigning!  How blithely would I gie this unco land
o' teuch beef and rotten nuts, hard fechtin and
wearysome marching, for auld Scotland, sae brave
and sae bonnie, wi' its green grassy glens and high
heather hills, its lochs and its woods!  Ochone!
Oh, Maister Ronald! gin we once mair saw Benmore,
and fand the smell o' oor ain peat reek, I dinna
think we would be in a hurry to leave hame again.
And then Miss Lisle o' the big ha' house would be
your ain, and my bonnie doo Jessie mine!  I have
written to her three times, and deil a scrap o' a
letter has she sent me.  She writes weil aneugh, thanks
to the auld dominie at the schule o' Latheronweel.
But what does the laird say?  Are a' weil at oor ain
ingle-neuck?"

"All, Heaven be thanked!" replied Ronald,
glancing rapidly over the pages of his father's
letter; "but leave me just now, Evan, and see who
that is knocking in the piazzas below.  I will detail
the news from the glen afterwards."

His father's letter, although it contained many
expressions of pride, praise, and exultation for
Ronald's conduct at Almarez, was written much in the
same style as his others usually were: every thing
was looking gloomy at home; the flocks and hirsels
were perishing on the mountains, and the tenants in
the glen had failed in their rents.  "But they are
our people," continued the old gentleman, "and I
cannot drive them forth from the sheilings where
they were born, and from the glen where the purple
heather blooms so bonnily above the graves of their
fathers.  I cannot savagely expatriate, as other
proprietors are doing daily, the descendants of those
true and loyal vassals, who stood by our ancestors
in danger and death during many a soul-stirring
time in the years that are gone.  No!  I have more
honour, compassion, and generosity.  Poverty is their
misfortune, not their crime.  Heaven knows how
little a space of time remains for me to be over them,
as all my affairs are inextricably involved, and in a
few months that letter of cautionary, granted in an
evil hour to protect that rascal Macquirk, becomes
due.  God alone knows where I can raise the money.
£8,000 will scarcely pay it, and I believe I will
have to lay it down every stiver, as Macquirk has
retreated to the sanctuary of Holyrood-house for
protection from his creditors.  Last month I was
down in Edinburgh, endeavouring to procure the
needful on a bond,—but in vain.  Lochisla is too
deeply involved already.  Curse on the hour in
which an honourable Highland gentleman of birth
and family has to sue at and succumb to a
narrow-hearted and blood-sucking attorney! a wretch that
will make a beggar of any man who is simple
enough to trust him, or become entangled in the
meshes of *the* profession, which, like a true old
Highlander, I regard with proper hatred and
contempt.  D—n them all!  I say, heartily; and all
tax-gatherers, messengers at arms, and excisemen
likewise!  Some of the last kind of intruders carried
off Alpin Oig's still from Coir nan Taischatrin, and a
great noise was made in Perth about it.  Three came
up the glen with a warrant for his apprehension; but
I hid him in the old dungeon under the hall, where
I would advise them not to try and look for him, if
they wish to keep their bones whole.  It was a great
insult to seize the still, but I am powerless now, and
can only think with a sigh of the time when my
father hung two of them on the *dule tree* at the tower
gate,—and no man dared to say, What dost thou?
It was the day before he marched for Glenfinnan,
and the unfortunate gaugers were left to feed the
eagles and corbies of Benmore.  Scotland was
Scotland then!  Dirk and claymore! was the cry when
a Highland gentleman was insulted.  I saw, by the
papers, that young Inchavon has been taken
prisoner.  Well, I dare say you will not miss him
much.  His sister's arts have completely failed to
entrap the Earl of Hyndford.  He took his departure
suddenly for Edinburgh last month, leaving
Miss Alice to fly her hawks at lesser game."

Ronald had scarcely finished the perusal of this
disheartening letter, when Evan entered hastily.
"Oh, sir," said he, "I have an unco' tale to tell
ye aboot my comrade Angus,—puir cheild."

"How! has he been robbed by picaros,—slain
by *guerillas*, or what?"

"O, waur than a' that."

"He deserted in the direction of the enemy;
I was sorry to hear of it.  He was always a
favourite of mine and of Seaton's.  Did he reach the
French lines?"

"Eh, no, sir!  Captain Blacier's riflemen fell in
wi' him amang the hills, and there has been an
unco' tulzie.  But weel do I ken for what puir
Angus deserted.  It wasna the French he was awa
to join; he was off for Almendralejo, sir."

"Almendralejo!  Stay; I remember a story now.
Surely it was not his attachment to some girl there
which led him to commit so rash an act?"

"Just naething else.  O Maister Ronald, ye ken
weel what an unco' thing love is."

"I have seen the girl,—Maria Garcionados."

"Ay, sir,—a bonnie lassie, wi' een like slaes,
cheeks redder than rowans, and skin like the drifted
snaw; but she has been a dooms unlucky jo for
Angus.  I'll tell ye the haill story.  Ye maun ken,
sir, that mony months gane past, when we were
quartered in Almendralejo, Angus fell over the lugs in
love wi' this braw gilpie, whan we were billeted in
her ain house.  Ye heard frae Mr. Macdonald o' the
toosle we had wi' her cuisins, and unco' auld Turk
o' a faither.  Hech! it was a teugh job, wi' sharp
skenes and bayonets, and a' that.  Weel, sir; syne
the day Angus first tint sicht o' that lassie, he has
never been the same rattling, roaring kind o' chield
he was; but ay wae and dowie, soughing and
sighing till it was gruesome to hear him.  Yesterday,
or the day before it, when coming ower the hills,—ye
mind the bit clachan we stoppit at for a night's
rest?"

"Los Cazas de Don Gomez?"

"Ay, sir, just sae,—a deevil o' a lang nebbit
name!  At a wine-house there Angus and I forgathered
wi' a muleteer loon frae Almendralejo,—Lazaro
Gomez, he ca'd himsel.  Ye'll may be mind o' him?"

"Perfectly; but be quick with your story."

"Aweel, sir, the mule-driver gied us a' the news
and clashin frae aboot Merida and ither places, and
amang ither things tauld Angus that auld Sancho
Garcionados,—or *el Picaro*, as the Spaniards ay ca'
a lawyer, was gaun to compel the lassie, whether
she wad or no, to marry a rich alcalde.  Od, sir!
I never saw a face change as puir Mackie's did,
while the carrier callant chatted awa wi' us in his
broken English, never kennin' the while that ilka
word was fa'in' like scaudin' lead into the heart b'
puir Angus.  He came to me that nicht at tatto beat,
and said he could thole this life no anither minute,
and that—come weal, come wae, he would gang off
for Almendralejo, and save the lassie or dee wi' her.
I did a' I could to pacify him, but he minded me nae
mair than the wind whistlin' ower the muir.  He
came to me whan I was on sentry at the toon end.
His een were glistening, his face was white, like
that o' something no cannie, and his gartered knees
were chaffing thegither.  I grew eerie to look at
him, for the nicht was dark and gloomy, and the
wind came soughing doon frae the hills wi' a sound
like the moan o' a deid man.  Ae starnie was glintin
on the hill-tap, and I saw the reflection o'd in the
rinnin water,[\*] which passes the toon wa's.  Angus
stretched his hands towards the bit starnie, and
said it was shinin' ower Almendralejo then,—and
may be, his ain true love was lookin' at it; and that
it hung like a lamp in the mirky, lift to guide him
to whar she bided.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] The Alagona river, which passes Coria.

.. vspace:: 2

"'Hoots, havers!' said I, 'ye'll sune get ower'd;
and may be that gomeral mule-driver's story o' auld
Sancho's dochter was a' a lee,—every word o't.
Gang hame to your bed, my man, and ye'll be
better the morn.'

"But he just gied an unco' sough, and wrung
my loof, gaed doon the brae, and left me.  Next
morning Serjeant Macrone reported him absent
frae parade, and then I kent that he had taen to the
hills and was awa'.  The black een o' that Spanish
lass hae cuisten' a glamourie ower him waur than
witchcraft.  Amang the hills he fell in wi' Captain
Blacier's company o' the 60th, some o' wha spiered
the gate he was gaun?  Angus couldna or wadna
tell, and a fray o' some kind ensued atween him and
the German loons: in the middle o't, Angus drew his
bayonet on auld Blacier, for which he now lies in
airns in ane o' the square toors o' Coria."

"O the fool!  Attempted to stab Blacier, did he?"

"Ay, an vera nigh stickit him i' the wame.
Puir Angus! he ay hated thae thrawn gebbit
Hanoverian dogs, as he ca'd them; for his faither,
like yer ain, had been out in the forty-five,—wi'
the Prince sae bauld and braw."

"The unfortunate madman! he will surely die.
It is death, by the articles of war, to draw weapon
upon an officer."

"So Serjeant Macrone says; but alake!  Maister
Ronald, I houp it will no come to that.  Blacier is
only a German, ye ken," said Evan, while his eyes
began to glisten.  "Surely the Cornel, Captain
Seaton, or may be yoursel, will get him ower it.  Angus
and me hae ever been cronies and brithers syne the
first day we met at La Nava, and I would be unco'
laith to lose him noo.  Ye ken hoo dowie ye were
yoursel for mony a lang day after brave Maister
Louis fell into the claws o' thae taid-eating loons,
and no a' Maister Macdonald's jokes or merriment
could rouse ye."

"Prepare yourself for the worst, Evan.  Your
poor friend will certainly die, if this crime is proved
against him." * * * *

Stuart was one of the members of the general
court-martial ordered to try this case, in which
desertion was coupled with a flagrant act of
insubordination.  The court met in the palace of the
bishop, as there was not another house in Coria
containing an apartment fit for the purpose,—the
town being very inconsiderable, having only about
fifteen hundred inhabitants, although strongly
defended by walls, towers, gates, and a very singular
fortress, the ascent to which is by a flight of
upwards of a hundred steps.  From this strong-hold
Mackie was brought before the court which was
to decide his doom.

The room in which it met, was gloomy and old,
and the dim light from four mullioned windows fell
uncertainly on the war-worn uniforms and well-bronzed
faces of the officers seated around the table,
on which lay paper, pens and ink, a bible, and the
articles of war.  The president, the Hon. Colonel
Cadogan of the Highland Light Infantry, sat at the
head; the judge-advocate, an officer of cavalry, stood
at the foot of the table to read the charges,—the
members taking their places according to their rank;
the seniors on Cadogan's right, the juniors on his
left.  After the court had been sworn, by the
president holding forth the bible, and every officer
laying his hand upon it and swearing "duly to
administer justice according to the rules and articles
now in force for the better government of his Majesty's
forces, without partiality, favour, or affection,"
the proceedings commenced.  Pale, dejected, and
apparently cast down to the lowest depths of mental
misery, the unfortunate young Highlander stood
before the military tribunal.  His red coat, threadbare
and patched with divers colours, his frittered tartans,
and a deep scar on one of his sun-burnt knees,
another on his cheek, gained at Corunna,—all bore
witness for him of the service he had seen, but which
was little cared for there, as all had served alike.
Tall and erect he stood before them, glancing from
one to another in a firm but respectful manner.  One
by one the evidences against him were examined,
and he found no fault with what any man said of
him.  Seaton and Serjeant Duncan Macrone stated
the time when his absence was first discovered, and
the former spoke highly of his general character and
conduct, and acquainted the court that his life had
been twice saved by the prisoner,—first at the battle
of Fuentes de Honore, in May 1811; and again at
Arroya del Molino in the November of the same
year, when he was encountered by two aides-de-camp
of the Prince d'Aremberg during the action.
Honest old Blacier, although the most aggrieved
party, was unwilling to be the means of depriving
the Highlander of existence, and taking his pipe from
his mouth, gave his evidence with marked backwardness;
he concluded by saying, "Dat he believed de
*henckers knecht* vas under de influence ob de pig-skins,
or *der teufel*, or *zauberei*, vich means de vitshcraft,
and I vould not hab it on my conscience dat
I occasioned a young man's being shot and sent to
*der teufel* for showing a bare blade ven his bloodt
vas up; and I hope de coort' vill recommendt him to
de tender mercy ob Lord Vellington, so dat he may
be shaved."

"Your wishes, with those of Captain Seaton,
shall have due consideration with the court,
Captain Blacier," replied the president; and the
rifleman withdrew, puffing vehemently with his long
pipe.  When called upon to make his defence, the
prisoner had little to say.  He knew that any
attempts to extenuate his double crime would be
perfectly unavailing, and his knowledge of the rules
of the service led him to anticipate his doom.  Yet
his keen grey eye never quailed or grew less bright,
and his voice never faltered while he addressed the
court in the following manner:—

"Weel do I ken, sirs, that I have been acting
wrang,—unco' wrang.  I hae been guilty, in sae far
that I abandoned my quarters, and was awa amang
the hills; but I deny solemnly, and may I be
haulden mansworn, if ever I ettled to desert, or gae
ower to the enemy's colours.  I was clean wud, and
kenned na' at the time whar I was danderin' to.  I
tell your honours the truth, and I would scorn to
affirm it wi' an aith, because I never tauld a lee in a'
my days, and hae nae need to fib or flaw noo.  But,
sirs, I think there isna ane in this room that wadna
hae dune as I did that nicht, when I kent that I
was on the brink o' losing for ever and ay the
winsome lass to whom I had plighted heart and troth;
and I will affirm, gentlemen, that neither the danger
or disgrace o' haeing it imputed to me that I
abandoned my standard, could keep me frae trying to
save her frae sic a tyrannical and avaricious auld
carle as her faither.  It has been said, in the 'crime,'
that I was gaun the gate to the enemy's lines.
Ablins I was, and ablins I wasna, for I was wading
through a sea o' desperation,—I was dumbfounded
and gane gyte that nicht, and it was a' after I had
bent the bicker a gay gude while, as my comrade
Evan Iverach has tauld unto ye.

"O sirs!  I hope that ye will neither flog nor
degrade me; but let me dee the death my crime is
said to merit.  Let me dee noo,—noo that I hae
broucht sorrow and wae, sorrow and disgrace to
my honest faither's fireside; for though he is but a
puir auld cottar body at Braemar, it will bring his
bald head to the grave if he hears I hae come to the
halberts,[\*]—it would be sic an awfu' disgrace! the
haill kintra-side wad ring wi't.  Let me rather die,
sirs: I say again,—a hundred times I hae faced
death, and I can easily face him ance mair.  But
it is whan I think o' my faither and mother at hame
amang the heather hills,—struggling wi' eild and wi'
poortith,—the ane herdin' sheep in bonnie Glenclunaidh
amang the lang yellow broom, and the ither
spinnin' hard at the ingle-neuk, whar I hae sae aften
toddled at her knee,—'tis whan I think o' them that
I am ready to orp and greet, and that my stout
heart fails me,—a heart, sirs, that never failed on
mony a bluidy day.  I hae nae mair to say, your
honours, but just that I humbly thank ye for hearing
me sae lang, and that I wad as sune dee as live."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] The triangles: three pikes were used in those days.

.. vspace:: 2

This address, which was delivered with considerable
vehemence and gesture, and spoken in a very
northern and provincial dialect, was very little
understood by those members of the court who were
not Scotsmen; and Ronald Stuart, whose heart
yearned with a truly Scottish love towards his
countryman, explained to them the substance of what
Mackie had said.  He was found guilty of the
seventh and eleventh articles in the second section
of the articles of war; viz. desertion,—aggravated
by an intention to join the enemy, and drawing, or
offering to draw, upon "a superior officer."  He was
sent back to the fortress of Coria, and the
proceedings and sentence of the court were despatched
to head-quarters, with strong recommendations to
mercy from Colonel Cadogan, and from Fassifern:
but many months elapsed before an answer was
returned, and during all that time the poor Highlander
pined in the noisome vaults of the castle or fort of
Coria.  But of him, more anon.

In consequence of the approach of the French
under General Foy, the first brigade moved from
Coria while the sentence of the unfortunate Mackie
remained unknown,—every member of a court-martial
being sworn to solemn secrecy.  The 50th regiment
occupied Bejar, so famous for its mineral wells,
and some sharp fighting ensued in its neighbourhood;
but Foy's troops were completely routed with
great loss.  The Highlanders occupied the beautiful
village of Banos, which lies secluded in a deep and
narrow valley between Leon and Estremadura,
surrounded on every side by abrupt precipitous
mountains, which are covered to their rugged summits by
the richest foliage; but amid their caverns, fastnesses,
and dingles lurk herds of wolves, the wildness and
ferocity of which keep the inhabitants in a
continual state of terror and alarm; and so daring had
these savage animals become, that it was necessary
to keep large fires burning at night around the
village, to scare them from the posts of the sentinels.

Soon after the regiment arrived at Banos, the
sentence of Angus Mackie was ordered to be put in
execution, having been approved of by the proper
authorities.  On the retreat from Burgos some
symptoms of insubordination had appeared among
the other brigades, when the soldiers became
maddened by the miseries they underwent; an officer of
"the buffs" had been shot by a soldier of that
regiment.  In other corps discipline seemed almost set
at nought, and it was determined that an example
should be made.  The private of the 3rd regiment
was hanged, and Angus Mackie, who, although
far less criminal, had been convicted of desertion
and insubordination, was sentenced to be shot
to death in presence of his comrades, who among
themselves deeply pitied and deplored that so
gallant a lad should suffer so severe a sentence for his
exaggerated crime.  No charge of injustice could be
laid to the account of the court which tried him, the
"finding" of its members having been regulated by
the stern but necessary articles of the Mutiny Act.
Many months had passed away since his trial; the
first excitement of the affair had died away, and
during all that time he had been confined in the
dreary fort of Coria,—a sufficient punishment alone
for the crime he had committed.

This unhappy affair cast a gloom over the whole
regiment,—a gloom which was apparent in every face,
as the unwilling Highlanders paraded in the valley
of Banos to witness his execution.

It was in the month of May 1813; the evening was
a still and beautiful one.  The sun was verging
towards the west, and his crimson rays streamed
through the deep dark dell, upon the vine-clad
cottages and sylvan amphitheatre of Banos.
Concentrated in that narrow and gloomy glen, where the
immense mountains rose on every side to the height
of many hundred feet, and where crags and rocks
shot up in cones and fantastic spires, almost
excluding the light of day from the little huts at the
bottom of the dell, were the seventeen infantry
regiments of the second division, together with the
cavalry, drawn up on the steep faces of the hills, so
that the rear ranks might overlook the front.  The
paisanos of the secluded village, awe-struck at the
unusual scene, and the sight of so many thousand
steel weapons glittering amid such dense masses of
foreign soldiers, forsook their cottages and clustered
together on the summit of a steep rock, to behold
the fatal event.  The troops formed three faces of
a hollow square; the rock upon which the peasants
were congregated occupied the vacant space.
A spot of velvet turf, the village-green, stretched to
the foot of it, and there was dug a grave,—a grave
for the yet living man; the wet damp earth heaped
up on one side of it, the rolls of turf and a rough
deal coffin lay on the other.  Near these stood the
base-drum of the Gordon Highlanders; a bible and
a prayer-book lay open upon its head.

The Highlanders formed the inner faces of the
square.

All was solemn silence and expectation; not a
whisper was heard through all that dense array; not
a sound smote the ear save the rustle of the summer
foliage, as the evening wind stirred the tall chesnuts
or rich green cork-trees which nodded from the
black precipices.  The general, the staff and
field-officers were all on horseback, but remained
motionless.  At last it was known that the doomed man
was approaching, and the arms of the escort that
conducted him were seen flashing in the sunlight, as
they descended from the hill tops by the winding
pathway which led to the bottom of the valley.
Sir Rowland Hill touched his hat to an aide-de-camp,
who then passed among the troops at a hand
gallop, whispering to each commanding-officer; the
words of command to fix bayonets and shoulder
arms were immediately given, and before the
varying tones of the different colonels died away, the
prisoner appeared amid the square surrounded by
his escort, under charge of the provost-marshal.
His own corps, I have said, was in front, and he
moved slowly along the silent ranks with downcast
eyes towards the spot where his grave and coffin
lay displayed.  He drew near the former, and cast a
glance into its gloomy depth and, shuddering,
turned his back upon it, muttering: "I would just be
sax and twenty the morn.  Sax and twenty! oh, it's
an unco thing to dee sae young.  O my faither—my
mither!" he groaned aloud; "farewell to you—to
auld Scotland, and a' I hae loed sae lang and weel!
It will be a sair trial to my kinsfolk in Glenclunaidh,
when they see my name on the kirk doors o'
Braemar—as ane that has dee'd wi' disgrace on his
broo."[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] By the military regulations, the names of soldiers who behave
meritoriously, or misbehave themselves grossly, are affixed to the
church-doors of the parish in which they were born.  In Highland
regiments the threat of informing friends at home of a soldier's
misconduct was sufficient to keep him in order for the time
to come.

.. vspace:: 2

He was clad in his white undress-jacket and kilt,
and stood bareheaded, with his bonnet in his hand.
He was pale and emaciated with long confinement,
but his bearing was firm and as soldier-like as ever.
His eyes seemed unusually bright, and at times a
red flush crossed his otherwise deadly pale cheek.
There were two aged monks from the San Ferdinando
convent of Candeleria present, but the Highlander
refused to hear or communicate with them.
Yet the honest friars were determined not to abandon
him in his last hour, and withdrawing to a little
distance, they placed a crucifix against a fragment of
rock and prayed earnestly, with true catholic fervour,
to that all-wise Power above, before which the
soul of one they deemed a heretic was so soon to
appear.

There was no chaplain present with the troops;
but the prisoner was attended by the venerable
Dugald-Mhor, who walked slowly beside him
bare-headed, with his bonnet under his arm.  He read
portions of the Scripture from an old dog-eared bible,
which he produced from his *sporran molloch*; and
the low solemn tones in which he read could be
distinctly heard by all, so very still was the place; and
as the hand of the village-clock approached the
hour at which the soldier was to die, a deeper sadness
fell upon the hearts of the beholders, who, although
long accustomed to all the heart-harrowing scenes
of war, had never before witnessed a death in so
solemn and peculiar a manner.

Mackie and his attendant sung together the hymn—

   |  "The hour of my departure's come," &c.

and when it was concluded, the hand of the clock
on the alcalde's house wanted but five minutes of
the hour.  The soldier cast a hasty glance towards
it, and, falling upon his knees, covered his face with
his hands and burst out into an agony of prayer,
from which he was only aroused by the seven strokes
of the last hour he would ever hear on earth
striking from the dull-toned bell.

His last moment was come!

When the sound ceased, Cameron of Fassifern
and his field-officers dismounted from their horses,
which were led away, and the provost-marshal drew
up a section of twelve soldiers opposite where the
prisoner yet knelt on the turf.

Many of his comrades now took their last farewell
of him; and Evan Iverach, to whom he had given
seven pounds, saved from his pay while prisoner
at Coria, to send to his parents at Braemar, retired
to his place in the ranks with tearless eyes, because
Evan had a mistaken idea, that to have shown signs
of deep emotion would have been unmanly.  But
that night, in his billet, honest Evan wept like a
woman for the loss of his comrade and friend.
During the bandaging of Mackie's eyes, Fassifern
took off his bonnet, and kneeling down, commanded
his regiment to do so likewise.  As one man the
Highlanders bent their bare knees to the sod,
joining, as they did so, in the solemn psalm which
Dugald and the prisoner had begun to sing.  It was a
sad and mournful Scottish air, one which every
Scotsman present had been accustomed to hear sung
in their village kirks or fathers' cottages in boyhood.
It softened and subdued their hearts, carrying back
their recollections to their childhood, and to years
that had passed away into eternity.  Many heard it
chanted then for the first time since their native hills
had faded from their sight, and as the strain died
away through the deep and narrow vale of Banos, it
found an echo in every breast.

Dugald closed his bible, and, placing a handkerchief
in the hand of the prisoner, withdrew, and
covering his wrinkled face with his bonnet, knelt
down also.  Now came the duty of the provost-marshal,
whose unwilling detachment consisted of
twelve picked men, of disorderly character, on
whom, as a punishment, fell the lot of slaying their
comrade.

With his eyes blindfolded, the unfortunate Highlander
knelt down between his coffin and his grave,
and, without quivering once, dropped his handkerchief.

"Section!" cried the provost-marshal,
"'ready—present—*fire*!"  The words followed each other in
rapid succession, and the echoes of the death-shot
were reverberated like thunder among the hills
around.  A shriek burst from the females of the
village.  Red blood was seen to spout forth from
many a wound in the form of the prisoner; he
sprung convulsively upwards, and then fell
backward dead on the damp gravel, which was so soon
to cover him.

The hearts of all began to beat more freely; but
at that moment the red sun sank behind the
darkening hills, and a deeper gloom enveloped Banos,
the effect of which was not lost on the minds of the
beholders.

All was over now!  The corse lay stretched on
the ground, and the smoke of the musquetry was
curling around the grave which yawned beside it.
Cameron sprung on his horse, and his voice was the
first to break the oppressive silence.  The shrill
pipes sounded, and the rattling drums beat merrily
in the re-echoing vale, as corps after corps marched
past the spot where the body of Mackie, though
breathless, lay yet bleeding, and moved up the
winding pathway towards the pass of Banos, whence
by different routes they marched to their
cantonments in the villages and camps among the
mountains.  When all had passed away, the pioneers
placed the dead man in his coffin, and covered him
hurriedly up; the sods were carefully deposited
over and beaten down with the shovel, and the grave
of the man who had been living but ten minutes
before, presented now the same appearance as the
resting-place of one who had been many years
entombed.  The weeds and the long grass waved
over it.

The village *paisanos* placed a rough wooden cross
above it, to prevent, as they said, "the heretic from
haunting the resting-place of his bones;" and near
this rude emblem was placed a vine, which Evan
Iverach tended daily—clearing its root of weeds and
encumbrances, watching and pruning the stem, and
long before the regiment left Banos he had twined it
around and hidden the limbs of the cross; and when
the Highlanders marched from the valley, as they
wound through a deep defile among the mountains
Evan's farewell look was cast to the place where
the vine-covered cross marked the grave of his
comrade.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN ADVENTURE.  A HIGHLAND LEGEND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN ADVENTURE.  A HIGHLAND LEGEND.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "And such a phantom, too, 'tis said,
   |  With Highland broad-sword, targe and plaid,
   |    And fingers red with gore,
   |  Is seen in Rothiemurchus glade."
   |                              *Marmion.*

.. vspace:: 2

Before the regiment left Banos to take the field
again, Ronald had an unlooked-for adventure with a
fierce denizen of the neighbouring mountains, which
nearly cost him his life.

There was a certain part of the hills, from which
the valley of Banos strongly resembled his native
place, Strathonan, but on a much smaller scale; and
thither Stuart was in the habit of repairing almost
daily, to indulge freely in those long reveries so
usual to a Highlander, and enjoy the beauty of the
prospect which bore so near a resemblance to his
home.  A slight effort of the imagination made it at
once Strathonan, near the source of that celebrated
trout-stream, the Isla; but the sound of the guitar
and castanets came on the wind instead of the
war-pipe of Albyn, and destroyed the illusion.  There were
neither bucks nor roes bounding over the mountain-slope;
and instead of the plaided shepherd or agile
huntsman starting from the copsewood, a lazy yet
handsome Spanish peasant appeared at times,
sauntering slowly along, clad in his short brown jacket
tied round the waist by a broad yellow scarf, leather
gaiters bound with red thongs, a cigar in his mouth,
a staff in his hand, and a stiletto in his girdle.  Often
did a figure wearing this romantic dress, or enveloped
in a huge brown mantle, appear on the solitary
pathways of the hills.  Far down below, on
the village green, instead of the lively strathspey or
martial gilliechallium,[\*] the graceful fandango or
bolero was danced by the athletic *paisanos* and
olive-cheeked girls of the valley.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Sword dance.

.. vspace:: 2

His patron had often warned him of the danger
which he incurred, by wandering so far among
mountains so much infested by wolves; but Stuart
always considered himself safe enough, as he never
went without his sword and dirk.  His host
acquainted him with many wonderful tales of men
having been killed and devoured by them among the
wild places; and said that, within his recollection,
nearly twenty children had been carried off from the
very heart of the village.

"Senor," said he, on one occasion, "you can
know little of the nature of the wolf, as perhaps
there are none now in your country; but they have
the cunning of the fox, together with the strength
and ferocity of the tiger.  On entering the village in
the evening, he moves about with careful and stealthy
paces; and when he seizes on a child, grasps it
by the throat so as to prevent it giving a single cry,
and bears it away to the recesses among the hills.
I have known of a lad of fourteen being carried off
thus.  A man belonging to the village, a brave
guerilla of Mina's band, was attacked one evening in the
pass of Banos by a band of wolves.  He slew three
with his rifle and poniard, but the others tore him to
fragments.  This brought the attention of senores
the alcaldes of the valley[\*] to the matter, and they
offered a reward of eighty reals, or four duros, for
each wolf's head brought to their houses, and
forthwith war was proclaimed against these fierce
inhabitants of the sierras.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Banos is divided into two districts, each ruled by its own
alcalde; the northern part of the village lies in Leon, and the
southern in Estremadura.

.. vspace:: 2

"A dozen hides and heads were brought in weekly,
and we continued this dangerous sport until the
British entered the valley, when firing in the
neighbourhood could no longer be continued.  Since we acted
upon the offensive, the wolves have become more
shy and never enter the vale, but it is death to
encounter the herds on their own ground; therefore
I would pray you, senor, if you value your own
safety, never to wander about as you are pleased
to do."

Ronald thanked the worthy vine-dresser for his
advice and good-wishes, but laughed at his fears
about the wolves, and told him that while he was
armed with his sword, he considered himself secure
against any such antagonists; and so continued to
ramble about as usual.

One evening, while he was surveying the valley
from his old post when the sun was setting, he
became overpowered with the heat of the atmosphere
and the fatigue of a long walk, and fell fast asleep
beside a rude wooden cross, erected to mark the spot
where the only *abogado* who ever appeared in Banos
had been poniarded by his first client for unfair
dealing.  How long Stuart slept there he had no
idea, but while dreaming that he had that worthy
clerk to the royal signet, Mr. Macquirk, among the
mountains of Banos, even close to the abogado's
cross, and was about to take summary vengeance
upon him for the manner in which he had
bamboozled and swindled the old gentleman at
Lochisla, he was awakened in a very disagreeable
manner by something grasping him roughly by the
throat.  With the rapidity of light all the stories he
had heard of the wolves flashed upon his memory.
He was fully awake in an instant, and found himself
grappling and struggling savagely with one of those
terrible animals, by moonlight, on a solitary
hillside many miles away from the village, where the
watch-fires of the guard-houses could be seen
twinkling afar off at the bottom of the deep valley, like
red stars.  His brass gorget and the massive lace,
on the collar of the coat, together with a stout
military stock, had saved his neck from the fangs of the
gigantic wolf, which, by straining every energy of
strength and courage, or rather desperation, he
grasped with a ferocity almost equal to its own, and
retaining his hold, threw upon the turf beside him.  Its
struggles were terrible, and his hands, which
encircled its tough and brawny throat, were torn by its
claws; yet he never relaxed his iron clutch until the
breath and strength of his antagonist began to fail,
and then putting his right hand to his side for his
Highland dirk, he remembered with rage and
anguish that it was left behind at his billet.  The
moment was indeed a critical one.  Two other wolves
were approaching the spot cautiously, and Stuart,
remembering how often he had heard of their
overpowering man by numbers, considered himself for
ever lost.  It was like some horrible dream, and his
heart became filled with an agony of horror and
alarm which it had never known before.

"Heaven help me now!" gasped he.  "Ah! had I
only my dirk, or even a *skene-dhu*, they would be
welcome."  He cried aloud for aid, but the cries
were feeble, as his tongue was swollen and clove to
his palate with the keenness of his terror; and ere
the echoes of his last shout died away, he was
struggling with the others, and was endeavouring to elude
their fangs by rolling over and over, and fighting
fiercely with hands and feet.  Scarcely had the two
wolves come to the aid of their half-burked comrade,
ere Stuart imagined that other sounds than the
echoes of his cry reverberated through the wilderness.
It was—what? the halloo of a true Highland
huntsman!

"Hoigh!  Diaoul! what's a' this?" cried Dugald
Mhor Cameron, plunging headlong among them,
with a long dirk gleaming in his right hand and a
*skene-dhu* in his left.  One wolf fled, another was
pierced thrice to the vitals by Dugald's dirk, and
rolled away for several yards, tearing up the earth in
rage and agony, until it was finally destroyed by the
sharp black knife being drawn across its thick throat
by Dugald, who handled it well, being an adroit
deer-stalker.  The other savage, which had been so
gallantly grasped by Ronald, he dispatched by
repeated stabs of the dirk, which he drove home to the
hilt, sending eighteen inches of cold iron into the
body at every stroke.  While this passed, poor
Stuart, exhausted and overcome, sank backward on
the turf, just as Fassifern rode up with his
claymore drawn.

"I trust we have not been too late," he cried
earnestly, as he leapt from his horse, which had
been snorting and shying aside from the scene of
the fray.  "I am sure, Dugald, we answered to his
first cry.  He is one of ours; an officer too,—Stuart,
by heavens!"

"But for Dugald's prompt and gallant succour,
all would have been over with me by this time, colonel,"
said Ronald, as with difficulty he staggered up
from the turf, which was plentifully besprinkled with
the blood of his enemies.

"Are you hurt in any way?" was the eager
inquiry of both.

"My hands are torn a little; but my sash and
coat are all rent to fritters."

"How opportunely Dugald came to save you!"

"Opportune, indeed!  I will never be able to
repay him for this night's work."

"Ochone!  Mr. Stuart," replied the old man, who
was cleaning his weapons in his plaid, "dinna say a
word about thanks; keep a' them for the kernel
there."

"I was coming over the mountains from Candeleria,"
said Fassifern, "where I have been president
of a court-martial.  Your cries alarmed us within a
few yards of this old cross, and my horse began to
snort and rear, refusing to advance a step; but trusty
Dugald went headlong on, and with his short
weapons, I see, has done you right good service.  'Tis
well the matter is no worse, and had the wolves not
given you so severe a mauling, Stuart," added the
colonel with a smile, as he put his foot in his stirrup,
"I should have sent Claude for your sword again.
You know you should never be without your arms,
or forget the order against strolling more than two
miles from camp or quarters.  By my word, these
were no ordinary foes to contend with, these wolves;
they are larger than Highland shelties, and their
skins will be a prize for the *paisanos* in the morning,
for Dugald is, of course, too proud to take fee or
reward from the alcaldes."

"I have escaped their maws by a miracle," said
Stuart, yet gasping with the excitement of the fierce
struggle.

"By nae miracle at all, sir," said old Dugald,
"by nae miracle; but just by the help o' a teuch auld
carle's hand and the bit cauld iron; and I assure your
honours, I wad rather face a thoosand rampaugin
wolves, than ae kelpie, habgoblin, wraith, spunkie,
sheeted ghaist, deadlicht, broonie, or ony ither scrap
o' deevildom sae common at name in the Hielands.
Hoich, sirs! it was indeed nae sma' matter to cut
the weasens o' thae awfu' monsters o' wolves; but,"
said he, holding aloft his long Highland dagger,
which flashed back the rays of the moon, "but that
is a blade that has rung on the target o' the
*lham-dearg*; and after *that*, what could a bold hand not
do wi' it?"

"On the target of who?" asked Ronald.

"The *lham-dearg*, sir."

"The words are Gaelic; but who is he?"

"A spirit wi' a bloody hand, that haunts at the
mirk hour the wood o' Glenmore, in the Grants'
country."

"What has this to do with your dirk?" said
Stuart, who became interested in every thing which
looked like a northern legend.

"Pooh!" said Cameron; "'tis an old ghost story,
and not one of Dugald's prime ones.  But he is as
prosy with his legends, as Colin Campbell is about
Egypt and Ralph Abercrombie."

"He doesna believe it noo," muttered Dugald,
shaking his white hairs sorrowfully; "but when he
was a bairn at hame in Fassifern-house, I hae made
his vera lugs tingle wi' fear at the name o' the
*lham-dearg*, and he used to grane and greet for a licht
that he micht see to sleep, as he said; and in thae
days he wadna hae gane into a dark place, to be
made king o' the braw Highlands frae Castle Grant
to Lochaber.  But noo wars and campaigning hae
learned him to scoff at a' thae matters, though his
faither, the laird, (gude guide him!) a man as auld
as mysel, believes every word o' them.  I daursay,
he doesna believe noo that deidlichts burn on the
piper's grave in the auld kirk-yaird at hame; or that
spunkies and fairies bide in the glen o' Auchnacarry,
kelpies in Loch-Archaig, or that the *daoine shie*
haunt the dark holes, cairns, round rings, and unco'
places o' the Corrie-nan-gaul in Knoydart, where I
mysel hae seen them dancing tulloch-gorm in the
bonnie moonlicht."

"Certainly not, Dugald.  What I believed when
a child, will scarcely pass now for truth; and I
believe you never saw any thing unearthly until
Ferintosh had swelled your belt to bursting.  Come,
Dugald, acknowledge this to be true," said Cameron,
laughing.

"May be ye'll no believe in the red-cap, that
haunts the auld tower at Archaig; and may be no in
the vera *taisch*?" said the old servitor in a voice
approaching to a groan at the other's apostasy.
"Ochone, may be no! although I mysel saw bluid
on his hand, and tauld him o' it the day before the
shot struck him there at the battle of Arroya del
Molino."

"Dugald," said the colonel, "I will not argue
with you about the second sight, because I know
you have some pretensions to the character of a
*taischatr*.  You certainly have me at vantage there, and
your prediction about the shot at Arroya came true;
and exactly twenty-four hours after you said my
hand dropped blood, a musquet-shot passed through
it.  A very singular coincidence indeed."

"It was nane," replied the old Gael firmly, "it
was nane; and I saw the shot before it came, because
there was a wreath before my een, and a' the power
o' the *taisch* was in me."

"Well, Stuart, what think you of the second sight?"

Ronald was loath to express his disbelief in this
superstition, which found a disciple in the colonel,
and so hesitated to reply.

"I see you are too true a Highlander to disbelieve
in its existence, and yet you are reluctant to
acknowledge the truth," said Fassifern laughing, while he
mistook the other's meaning.  "But let us reach
Banos, and over some of the bottled sherry which I
lately got from Lisbon we will discuss these matters,
and hear Dugald's story of the spirit of Glenmore,
which if you are at all superstitious might have too
much effect if related by him in Gaelic by moonlight,
and on a lonely hill-side."

This proposal was at once accepted, and they
began to descend the narrow and winding pathway
which led from the rugged summits of the sierra
towards the village.  Dugald advanced in front,
leading the horse of Cameron, who followed behind
with Stuart.  The latter thanked his stars for
escaping from his late encounter so easily, having only
sustained a few severe scratches and bruises.  While
enjoying some of the colonel's pure bottled sherry,
a rarity in Spain, where the wine is ever kept in
greasy hog-skins, Ronald soon forgot his disagreeable
adventure at the abogado's cross.  Dugald who,
in consideration of his venerable age and relationship
to Fassifern (being a fortieth cousin or so), was
seated at the table, partook of the wine, and to wile away
the time related in Gaelic the Highland legend he
had referred to.  Many readers may consider it a
foolish, perhaps an intrusive tale altogether; but had
they heard it far away from home, in a hut at Banos,
related in expressive and poetical Gaelic by such a
reverend and warrior-looking old man as Dugald
Cameron, it would have had a very different effect
from what it can ever produce when related in plain
and unvarnished English, stripped of all the Ossianic
description and style in which Ronald Stuart first
heard it.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center bold

   The Lham-Dearg

.. vspace:: 1

"My story commences at the close of the fatal,—ay,
sirs, I may say the most deplorable battle of
Culloden; a battle which laid prostrate, for ever the
hopes of a gallant prince, the cause of an illustrious
house, and the energies of a brave and loyal people,
and proved that *right* may contend in vain against
*might*, and that justice must sometimes yield to the
overwhelming majority of brute force.  I was then
but a wild Highland boy of fifteen, and followed the
clan-regiment of the noble Lochiel, upon whom I
attended as a sort of page, to carry his target and
scabbard on the march.  My brave old father, too,
was in the battle; and being, in consequence of
his relationship to the chief, a front rank man, he
greatly distinguished himself in that desperate but
unavailing charge we made on the troops of the
Elector, after foolishly enduring a cannonade which
miserably thinned our numbers.  Ah, sirs! had we
at first rushed on them with the broad-sword, as was
ever our wont, another race would have filled the
throne at this hour; but when we did charge,
Cumberland's two lines were swept before our long
blades like winnowed chaff upon the gale.  Even
then the day seemed ours, when the fire of the third
compelled us to recoil.  Ochone! let me think of it
no more, for I grow wild at times when the memory
of these days swells up in my withered heart, and
the dangers, the glory, and the chivalry of the
'forty-five' are all remembered with mingled pride and
sorrow.  I was but a child then, and yet on that
bloody day I shot dead several of Barrel's regiment,
while the Camerons were among them, hewing them
down like willow-wands with axe and claymore.

"In the rout which followed, I fled away with
our wounded chieftain, and gained a place of safety
among the hills; but my father was taken captive by
the Campbells from the west country, and so he was
one of the few who escaped the death decreed to
all by the bloody mandates of the German duke,
whose memory will be abhorred and execrated
while grass grows and water runs in the land of
the Gael.

"It is of my father's adventures I have now
principally to speak.

"He was disarmed and manacled by the false
sons of Diarmed, and from amidst them he beheld
the merciless red-coats slaying, murdering in cold
blood the helpless and unresisting wounded by
spontoon and bayonet, by the sword and volleys of
musquetry; while the relentless Cumberland rode about
the muir of Drummossie with his staff, treading
down the hearts of better and braver men than
ever will come of his tribe.

"The sun set that night on a field of blood, and
one of woe and desolation to the Highlanders.

"Those wretched prisoners, whom the blood-glutted
soldiers were too weary to slaughter, were,
to the number of four hundred and forty men,
enclosed in a hollow square, surrounded by the
regiments of Barrel, Wolfe, and Bligh, who hemmed
them in with fixed bayonets, and subjected them
to every taunt and insult that national hatred, the
meanest malice and cowardice when most triumphant,
could suggest.  Amongst other brave and
unfortunate clansmen my father listened to them; his
bosom swelled with rage and agony, and he longed
to burst his bonds and leap like a tiger headlong
upon them.  But he was powerless, unarmed, and
ironed, rather like some base malefactor than a
gentle-blooded *duinhe-wassel* of the clan Cameron.
The cutting taunts of Bligh's soldiers roused at last
even the ire of Colonel Campbell of the Argyleshire
men, and his blood became fired at the gross abuse
lavished upon his countrymen.  Stepping forward
with his sword drawn, he sternly commanded them
to be silent, and said that he would wager his
commission against a crown-piece, that any Highlander
there would meet in equal arms, and vanquish the
best man present that wore a scarlet coat.

"'Ha! do you say so, sir?' cried the duke, who
with his staff was in the centre of the square.

"'May it please your highness, I do most
assuredly,' said Campbell, raising his bonnet; 'and
I long to see the matter put to the test, to cure these
southron gentry of their unwarrantable insolence.
By my faith, they seem to forget the good use they
made of their heels at Preston and Falkirk!'

"'And you will stand to your wager, colonel?'

"'My commission to a crown-piece.'

"'Done!' said the duke.  'Your bet is a fatal
one, as you will find to your cost, ere many minutes
pass away.  Your very words savour of Jacobitism
and treason; and your commission shall certainly
be lost, if your rebel beats not a champion of my
choosing.  My friend, Major Von Thunderbotham,
of Bligh's, may consider your command as his
already.'

"'By Heaven! your highness, no dog of a Hessian
that ever wore a head, shall command the men of
Macallummore's race!' replied Campbell bluntly,
and regardless of the consequences.

"A gigantic dragoon of Cobham's horse offered
himself readily as the duke's champion; and on his
colonel bearing testimony of his strength, activity,
and expertness with his weapon, he was accepted.
In his broken English, the ungenerous duke now
addressed the prisoners in a style at once savage
and insulting, offering freedom to any one of them
who, in an encounter with the broad-sword, could
foil the trooper.  The words had scarcely fallen from
his lips, before my father strode forward and claimed
the combat.

"'Strike well, Cameron, for the honour of the
Highlands!' said Campbell, as my father flung
aside his fetters as he would have done a coil of
adders.

"'Had you and others of your race struck for the
right this day, the Prince would not have been a
fugitive in the land of his fathers!' replied the
other with an indignant scowl.

"'Oich! you are somewhat insolent for a cock
laird or upstart gilly,' said the abashed Campbell.
'But remember that freedom is before you if you
conquer; and if not, the hemp is grown—ay, man,
and twisted too,—that will hang you like a dog
from the walls of Carlisle some day to come.'

"'Better a thousand times to die on the scaffold
with the white cockade on my brow, than eat the
bread of a foreign oppressor and usurper,' replied
my father heedlessly.  'But am I to encounter the
sidier roy with my hands, after the base manner of
his people?"

"'No: take my claymore,' answered Campbell;
'its temper and metal are matchless.  Luno of
Lochlin never forged a better: and if you are brave
as you are impudent, I have no fears for you.'

"'But a dirk; what shall I do for a dirk?'

"'Take mine, Evan of Tor-a-muilt,' said an aged
Highlander stepping forward, wearing red tartans
and the bramble-berry badge in his bonnet.  He
placed a dirk,—this very weapon with which I slew
the wolves to-night,—in the hand of my father, who
started back with awe at the sight of the giver.
The Highlanders around shrunk back likewise.  His
height was superhuman; his hair was white as
snow, and a beard of the same hue descended to the
square buckle at his girdle.  His eyes had that keen
and bright expression in them which seemed to
harrow up the soul, and read the inmost thoughts of
those he looked upon.  In his bonnet he still wore
that badge which all others had discarded for
safety,—the white rose of the Stuarts.

"'Strike well, Cameron, and you will have your
revenge,' said he, waving his bonnet as he added,
'God bless King James the Eighth, and send death
to the Elector of Hanover!'

"'Shoot him! bayonet him!  Forward!' cried
Cumberland in a tempest of fury, and with the
hoarse accents of rage.  'Blow out the brains of
the insolent rebel!'

"But the aged speaker of the treason had
disappeared, and although the prisoners were narrowly
searched twice over, he could no where be found,
and the fury of the duke was boundless.  What
became of the old man, no one knew.  He disappeared
suddenly from amidst them; but whether he
sunk into the earth or melted into thin air, remains
yet a mystery; but the Highlanders were filled with
terrors, and every man drew his plaid closer around
him, and shrunk from the touch of his neighbour.
After threatening the English trooper with the lash
and triangles if he did not vanquish his opponent,
he commanded the combat to begin without further
delay.  The dragoon cast aside his leather gloves,
and drawing his long blade, stood upon the
defensive.  My father belted his plaid tighter about
him, drew his bonnet over his brow, and rushed, in
the northern fashion, headlong on his adversary,
who was compelled to retire backwards, acting only
on the defensive.  Burning with hatred and fury,
my father pressed forward, heedless of the weapon
of the soldier, in whose broad breast he buried
the dirk of the mysterious Highlander, and then
gathering all his force for one mighty effort with
the claymore, he clove the unfortunate dragoon
down to the neck, cutting even the folds of his white
cravat.

"'Well done, Cameron!  Hoigh! for Lochiel!'
cried Colonel Campbell.  'Now your highness will
perceive what thews and sinews the mountains can
produce.  I have gained my bet.  Your countryman
the major is likely to continue one a little longer,
and the crown-piece will go to my good champion.'

"'King George has lost a true man,' replied the
duke fiercely, 'and hell is cheated of a Scots rebel
for a short time longer.  Well now, dog of a
Highlander! you have missed the gallows this time; but I
believe only a little time will elapse before you
dance yet to the hangman's hornpipe.'

"At this supposed smart remark a loud laugh arose
among his glittering staff, and was echoed by the
soldiery; but a prouder and more triumphant shout
burst from the unfortunate Gaelic prisoners.  Many
a gallant battle-cry mingled with it.  *Fraoch-eilan!
A dh'aindeoin cotheireadh!  Craigellachie!* from the
men of Glengarry, Clanronald, and Strathspey.  Loud
and long they shouted in defiance, till the crimson
cheeks and carbuncles of the corpulent duke turned
white with vexation and fury.  When the
commotion had subsided Colonel Campbell put a few
crown-pieces into my father's hand, and pointed to
the hills.

"'Begone now,' said he, 'and thank your
mother for giving you such good milk, and for
making such a man of you.[\*]  Away! the mountains
are before you, and you are once more a free man.'

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] These were the very words used by Colonel Campbell when
his singular combat terminated, after the field of Culloden.
See any History of the Civil War, 1745-6.

.. vspace:: 2

"'I want not your gold or your silver, sir!' said
my father, tossing the pieces on the bloody grass.
'Your money is the wages of treason to Scotland,
and rebellion against King James.  I heed not your
frown, sir.  God will now be the best judge between
your cause and ours, after this fatal day.  Keep
your money, and I will, with your permission, retain
the claymore; it may yet be drawn for King James
the Eighth.'

"And without vailing his bonnet, or deigning to
bestow a glance on Cumberland, he broke through
the ranks of Wolfe's regiment, and made off with
all speed towards the mountains of the Grants'
country, where he hoped to remain in safe hiding
until the clans gathered together once more, or the
present danger had passed away.  After concealing
himself in the *Chlachdhian*, or sheltering-cave of
Cairn-gorm, and after wandering for days in Duthil
and Inverallan, and being sorely hunted and pressed
by the parties of red-coats scouring and devastating
the country, he found himself one night compelled to
take refuge in the great fir forests of Grant of
Rothiemurchus, the whole country from Lorn to the mouth
of the Spey being infested with bands of the *sidier
roy*.  Beacons of destruction, by night and by day,
blazed on hill and in valley, while the proud halls
of long-descended chieftains and the green huts of
their faithful vassals were given indiscriminately to
the flames; and the shrieks of helpless women and
children were borne on the breeze, which had so lately
swelled with the *piobrachd* and march of the
Highlander.  It was a sight indeed to make him thirst
for vengeance, when nightly he looked forth from
the cavern of the blue mountain to behold the sky
red with the fires of the destroyer.  But, alas! the
neck of the Gael was bending beneath the foot of
the stranger, and the power of the proud race who
would never bend, was then broken.

"To shut out sights and sounds which every where
announced the downfall of Albyn, my father plunged
into the recesses of the wild forest of Rothiemurchus,
but his retreat was not unmarked.  A party of king's
troops, Hessians I believe, clad in yellow uniform,
beheld him from a neighbouring eminence, and
despatched a party of ten men, to shoot or destroy him
in any way they chose,—Cumberland having doomed
to death all who wore the garb of the Celtic race.
For nearly an hour these Georgian sleuth-hounds
followed upon his track with murderous eagerness
and precision, firing at intervals whenever he came
in sight.  Their fire he returned, and shot dead three
with his Highland pistol.

"Dashing on, and threading the mazes of the forest
with the rapidity and activity of a true mountaineer,
he contrived to baffle his pursuers, and reached what
he supposed to be the inmost recesses of the
wilderness.  There, panting and breathless with
exhaustion, he flung himself to rest on the green sward,
cursing and deploring the hour when a son of the
Gael had to flee from the arm of a stranger, and was
hunted like a deer on his native hills by the soldiers
of one he deemed a German despot and oppressor.

"He rolled himself up in his plaid, and creeping
close under the pine branches, lay listening with
intense eagerness when the crash of a bramble or the
rustle of leaves should announce that the Hessians
were on his track.  The night was calm and still.
Not a heather-bell or blade of grass was stirring, and
the pendent branches of the gloomy and gigantic
pines hung down perfectly still and motionless.  Not
a sound was heard throughout all the immensity of
the vast forest, save the hoarse murmurs of the
foaming Spey, whose waters came hurrying down from
the far-off hills of Badenoch, and swept through the
recesses of Rothiemurchus on their course to the
Moray Frith.  There was no moon shining, but the
night was clear and cloudless, and at times the red
stars were seen twinkling through the dark foliage
of the pines.

"As my father (Evan of Tor-a-muilt,[\*] as he was
named) lay thus in concealment, he suddenly
remembered that he was within the bounds of the
place haunted by the terrible spirit of Glenmore and
Rothiemurchus,—the *lham-dearg*, or bloody-hand,
who compelled all who crossed his path during his
nocturnal rambles to do battle with him, and none
were ever known to survive the awful conflict.  He
would have started up and fled; but remembering
that it was equally dangerous to avoid as to seek
the company of evil spirits, he resolved to remain
where he was, saying over his prayers like a good
catholic, and imploring protection from Saint Colm
of the Isles.  Yet his blood ran cold with terror,
perspiration burst forth from every pore, and he
covered his head in his plaid to shut out any frightful
sight or sound that might invade the stillness of the
gloomy wood.  He locked his hand in the basket-hilt
of his claymore, and lay hearkening so intensely,
that he might almost have heard the dew dropping
from the leaves.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] The Wedders-hill, an eminence at the foot of Loch-Archaig,
in Kilmallie, Inverness-shire.

.. vspace:: 2

"A loud exclamation in a barbarous language, and
one unknown to him, caused him to start up; and
the report of musquetry, the crash of shot striking
the trees, and the light uniform of a score of
Hessians appearing at a short distance, compelled the
hunted Highlander again to seek safety in flight.
As unrelentingly as ever they pursued, incited by
the hope of plunder, and the reward given for every
dirk and claymore.  The soldiers, to procure
Highland weapons, committed a thousand outrages, even
in the town of Inverness, and among the mountains
tortured by various means the poor peasantry to
reveal where their arms were concealed; after which
they were either shot or bayoneted.

"'May the curse of Glencoe be upon ye! and may
the raven's croak be your only coronach, ye wolves'
whelps!' cried he, as he again fled through the
wood.  'Better face a Highland bogle than the
bayonets of the Hessians, a race as cowardly as
they are merciless!'

"He sought the most difficult and devious paths
and soon the shouts of the enemy died away behind
him in the distance.  No sooner did he find himself
in safety than his former fears returned, and as he
paced slowly along a narrow forest-path, where the
branches were locked together overhead, and where
only the pale starlight glimmered at times, he
beheld before him the figure of a gigantic Highlander.
He was moving but a few yards in front, and his
form towered up between the trees in dark and
shadowy outline.  The belted plaid fluttered behind
him, and the eagle's wing, with the forbidden
badge of James VIII., adorned his bonnet.  With
long and stately, but noiseless strides, he continued
moving before my father, who often hallooed aloud
to him to turn or stand, without receiving an answer.
The checks of his tartan were red, his white beard
streamed about him, and my father at once recognised
by it the aged warrior who had presented him
with the dirk on the muir of Drummossie.

"'Turn and assist me, if you are a true son of the
hills?  The blood-hounds of the Hanoverian have
been on my skirts the live-long night; and even
now they track me like a stricken deer.'  My
father received no answer to many such exhortations,
yet he continued closely to follow the stranger, who
always contrived to elude his grasp, and led him
a wearisome ramble across the ravines and deep
corries, through brawling torrents and intricate
dingles, until, enraged at his contemptuous and
singular conduct, he drew his claymore.

"'Turn, base coward!' he exclaimed, 'turn;
and I will try whether the boss of your target is
proof against the strokes of claymore and skene-dhu,
or the *biodag*.  Turn, turn; or by my father's
bones, I will smite you through the back!'

"Even while he spoke, the form which had glided
so far before him suddenly vanished, and he found
himself at the mouth of a cavern, huge, black, and
yawning, with the long and dark whins waving
gloomily from the rocks around.  A moment he
recoiled at the sight of it, but summoning up his
energies he entered boldly, calling aloud on his
midnight companion in terms of threat and defiance,
until the winding recesses of the cavern rang with
the sound.

"It seemed to him that other noises mingled with
the deep echoes of his voice.  A tempest of wind
tore through the cavern, hurling him violently to the
earth.  The trees of the forest without were shaken
as if by a tempest; the Spey thundered louder over
a neighbouring cascade, and the roar of its falling
waters was mingled with the shrieks of the river
kelpie.  My father sprung up, and instinctively stood
upon his guard, but an oppressive feeling of horror
took possession of his mind; a cold perspiration
bedewed his forehead; his lips were parched and his
mouth clammy; he could hear his heart throbbing
audibly, while he strained his eyes till they almost
started from the sockets, as he endeavoured to
pierce the gloom.  At that moment he would have
faced a whole brigade of red-coats to have been free
from that terrible cavern, but he had gone too far
to recede, and he gathered courage from despair.

"He heard the clank of steel, and the tread of
heavy feet sounded as if afar off, in hollow and
vaulted places.  Something like the fold of a damp
plaid or shroud was waved across his face, and the
memory of the *lham-dearg* again rushed terribly and
vividly upon his mind.

"Expectation and horror wound him to a pitch of
madness: he held aloft his target, and even while
his hair bristled under his bonnet, and the marrow of
his bones seemed turning to ice, he defied the spirit
to battle.

"'Bloody hand of Glenmore! spirit of darkness! spirit
of hell! come forth?  Here a true man, a
Cameron, defies you!'

"While the words were falling from his lips the
awful figure stood before him, arrayed as an ancient
warrior of the hills, and a halo of lambent fire
playing around his form rendered him terribly distinct
amidst the surrounding darkness.  My father's brain
boiled and whirled while he looked upon him, and
his heart grew sick and palsied with fear: he knew
that he was in the presence of an infernal spirit.
Notwithstanding his terror, he recognised the
white-haired warrior from whose hand he had received the
dirk, and whom he had followed with taunt and
defiance through the wood; but a superhuman courage
armed his heart and nerved his hand, and calling
aloud on heaven and Saint Colm of lona to aid him,
he rushed forward to the encounter.  The face of the
spectre was changed from what he had first seen
it: it was distorted and terrible with rage, and his
eyes glared like stars of fire.  My father saw the
blade of the *lham-dearg* descending like a flash
of lightning, yet he shrunk not; he felt it ringing
upon his target, but he sunk with the mighty force
of the blow, and a whirlwind seemed again to rush
through the cavern, and bear him along with it,
dashing him senseless to the earth.

"When consciousness returned, the morning sun
was shining gaily in the wide blue vault, the dewy
pines of Rothiemurchus were glistening in the light,
and afar off rose the huge sides of the blue
Cairngorm.  The eagle was boldly winging away from his
eyrie among the shores of Loch-avon, and soaring
aloft on the balmy air; the mountain Spey was
rushing as usual through the corries and chasms of the
pine-clad glen, from which the white mists and foam
of its course were curling in the bright sun, above
the dark fir trees of the vast Highland forest.

"My father rose; he stretched his stiffened limbs
and looked cautiously around him, but neither
spectre nor red soldier was in sight.  Behind him
yawned the arched mouth of the black cavern: he
shuddered as he looked upon its gloomy depth, and
turning away, plunged into the forest in hopes that some
loyal tenant or forester of the laird of Grant would
yield him somewhat to save him from perishing of
want."

"Then, Dugald, this terrible encounter turns out
to have been only a dream after all," said Stuart.

"Nothing more," remarked Fassifern.

"It was nae dream, sirs," said Dugald, forgetting
his Gaelic, and resuming the Lowland dialect,
"it was indeed nae dream; and as proof positive,
he found his target cloven like a nut-shell by the
stroke of the spirit's blade—what nae mortal sword
could hae dune; for it was covered wi' four
barkened bull-hides, and with three hundred brass
studs,—and yet it was cloven in twa, and his arm felt
the wecht o' the unco' cloure for mony a day after."

"A very foolish story, Dugald," said the colonel.
"But you have forgotten to tell us that your father
had emptied a capacious hunting-flask of fiery
mountain whisky before he entered the cavern; and
probably a fall on the rocks might account for the
cloven targe."

"Sir, ye never tried to account for it in that way
before," replied the old man indignantly; "bethink
ye, when at hame, how ye wadna put your nose outside
the door-stane after dark, for fear o' encountering
*lham-dearg*.  Ye were but a callant then, to be
sure; but even now, wi' a' your bravery,—and I ken
that, like a' o' your name, you've a lion's heart in the
field, on the water ye tremble like an aspen leaf,
and a' for fear o' the kelpie.  But as for my faither's
adventure, ye ken the hail country-side rang, and
yet rings, wi' the story."

"Your father, Dugald, was always seeing things
such as no other man ever saw, I believe."

"I ken he was farer seen than maist folk; but
mair than he hae viewed the fightin' spectre o'
Glenmore, but nae man ever cam aff sae easy frae a
tulzie wi' him.  Four o' Rothiemurchus' gillies ance
foucht a battle wi' him near Loch-morlach, and
never ane o' them survived the scuds his claymore
gied them."

"Well; and the dirk—"

"My faither wore till his dying day,—and I shall
wear till mine, in memory of that adventure.  It's no
different frae other men's,—a sharp blade wi' a
buckhorn hilt, ye see; but he micht sink it to the guard
in an aiken tree, and it ne'er would bend or break.
But, as I said before, my faither was farer seen than
ither folk, and he ance had a mair solemn and eerie
adventure wi' a wraith,—ay, sirs, *his ain wraith*,
than the ane I hae now related.

"He joined me when I was wi' the Prince and
Lochiel, biding in concealment amang the wild
shores of Loch-Archaig, at Kilmallie.  The Prince
of Wales lived in our puir hut on the top of
Tor-a-muilt, frae whar we had a look-out for mony
a mile, and richt gude need there was!  The hail
country was swarming wi' red-coats and blood-thirsty
mercenaries, under the Prince of Hesse.
Ochone! ochone-aree!  Had you seen the gallant
Prince Charles as I saw him then!  O sirs! the
vera thocht o't maddens me.  He had neither shirt,
shoe, nor hose on; he had been wandering for six
weeks in the Corrie-nan-gaul of Knovdart,
bare-footed, dressed in an auld tartan coat and
*filleadh-beg*, wi' a lang beard hanging frae his chin.  He
carried a musquet, dirk, pistol, and horn; and but
for his famished and wae-begane face, lookit mair
like some wild reiver o' the isles, than the son o'
braid Scotland's king.

"We were a' in the same plight, and ever since
the dool-day o' Culloden had lived in caves and
forests, like the beasts o' the field.  My father found
us out in our hiding-place—a feat which baffled the
followers of Cumberland, to whom no true Scotsman
would betray us,—even although thirty thousand
pounds were offered for the prince, dead or alive!
My father fell on his knees, and sair he wept to see
the son o' his king a wandering outcast and outlaw,
amang his ain Highland hills.  He tauld us o' his
encounter wi' the *lham-dearg*, but the prince
laughed heartily, just as he used to do at Holyrood, and
wadna believe a word o't.  Aweel, sirs, we wandered
lang about Archaig and Glenpean, stealing for
the prince's support the few sheep which escaped
Cumberland's order to destroy every living thing in
the country.  Mony, mony were the miseries and
calamities he suffered until the month of September,
when he embarked at Moidart on board o' the Ballona,
a Nantz ship o' thirty-twa guns, broucht for him
by the loyal Colonel Warren.  Lochiel, Glengarry,
Borodale, and a hundred common men, including
my faither and mysel, followed them into banishment.

"In France the prince, wha indeed never, while
ae plack rubbit on anither, forgot auld friends, got
Lochiel command of one of the regiments composed
of Scots and Irish refugees, wha served the French
king.  As in duty bound, we followed Lochiel, and
became soldiers of his battalion, which soon became
so famous,—the Royal Scots regiment.  We were
wi' the army under the Mareschal Saxe, whan the
French defeated oor auld enemy the bluidy Duke
of Cumberland at Laffeldt, in June 1747, and
compelled the British troops to retire in disorder.  Wi'
a' the memory o' the past, o' our prince's wrangs,
and the awfu' butcherie o' Culloden glowing in their
minds, the Royal Scots fought wi' richt gude will
against the scarlet ranks o' the British, and unco'
slaughter we made amang them wi' bayonet and
claymore, when they were compelled to flee, and
retire in disorder on the toon or village o' Val.

"On the evening o' the battle day my father stude
on duty as an advanced sentinel frae the French
picquets; placed by the Mareschal Saxe in the
direction o' Maestricht, where the British army lay.  It
was just aboot the gloaming, the clouds were
gathering in the lift and darkening the flat, level, I may
say meeserable landscape; and my faither, puir man,
strade sorrowfully to and fro on his lanely post,
sighing sairly as he thocht on mony a braw and
brave comrade and clansman then lying cauld and
stiff on the plain o' Val, and ower wham nae
coronach could be sung, or cairn raised in the land
o' the stranger.  He thocht too o' his humble
sheiling at hame, on the Wedders-hill, and compared
the view frae it wi' the 'Lawlands o' Holland,'
wi' the dull marshy flats, the yellow canals, and
slaw-moving barges, the windmills, and smoky toons
about Laffeldt.  Different indeed was the scenery
frae that around the lanely auld thack cottage at
hame, where the blue Loch-Archaig rolled to the
base o' the dark an' towering mountains, covered
wi' the siller birch or black pines to their vera tap.

"Puir man! melancholy and sad he grew, but his
surprise was aroused when he saw a Hieland soldier,
wearing a garb the vera counterpart o' his ain,
walking slowly, at a few yards distance, as if
likewise on sentry.  My faither stoppit to observe him,
and the stranger stoppit also; and the outline o' his
form was distinctly seen, as he stude wi' his back
to the west, whare the sky was a' crimson and gowd
wi' the last flush o' the day that had passed awa'.
My faither challenged twice aloud, but gat nae
response; and his birse beginning to rise, he made a
motion as if handling his musquet, biting his
cartridge, and a' that, ye ken.  The stranger did sae
likewise, imitating his motions exactly as his shadow
on the wa' or reflection in a looking-glass wad hae
dune.  A queer and eerie sensation passed over my
father on behauldin' this, and a souching cam ower
his heart when he bethoucht him that a' wasna
richt.  Yet boldly he gaed towards the figure, and
step to step as he took them, mimicking ilka motion,
the ither advanced also, until my faither made an
involuntary stop, and it did sae too.

"At that moment a feeling o' awfu' and immeasurable
horror entered the soul o' my faither, when he
viewed in the face and figure o' the stranger an exact
counterpart o' himsel'—every lineament o' his face,
every check in his tartan, were the same—the same
his arms and badges.  Then did he ken that he
beheld his wraith, and that the hour of his departure
was at hand.[\*]  As the expression o' his face became
distorted wi' terror and awe, the features o' the
wraith or bogle underwent the same change, and
his ain een seemed glaring back upon himsel wi'
affricht.  He rushed madly forward wi' his charged
bayonet, but the form melted into thin air, and disappeared.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] A species of second sight is believed in by the Highlanders,
which is supposed to be a forerunner of death.  An apparition
haunts them, or appears at times, resembling themselves in every
respect.  The legendary stories of such appearances are
innumerable, indeed, over the whole of Scotland.

.. vspace:: 2

"He tauld his comrades o' the sicht he had seen
upon the muir, and every true Gael believed him,
and knew that his hours were numbered then, and
that his time amang them would be short.  Yet his
heart never trembled, and he went forth to battle the
next day wi' a spirit that never flinched, and a hand
that never failed, till the death-shot struck him.  Sairly
his story was jeered by the Lawland loons and men
frae south o' Dunkeld; but next day, at the vera
return o' the hour in whilk the wraith appeared, he
was shot dead in the attack upon the British post
at Mount Saint Peter, when the Mareschal Saxe was
endeavouring to drive Cumberland beyond Maestricht.
Ochone! mony a brave and leal Scot's heart
grew cauld that nicht, sirs,—my father's amang the
lave.  I rowed him up in his plaid, and buried him
wi' my ain hands, howking his grave at the side
o' the road between Saint Peter's and the Scheld.
The live-lang nicht I wroucht in piling a cairn aboon
him, that the feet o' the stranger micht no tread ower
the place o' his repose.

"Now, sirs, that the things I hae tauld unto ye this
nicht are true, and a' happened just as I hae
described, I firmly believe; and that some men are
doomed to behauld strange sights and unwarldly
visions, nae body will deny."

"I decidedly do, Dugald," said Cameron; "but
your father, Evan of Tor-a-muilt must have been
seeing double when he saw the wraith,—no
disparagement to him when I say so, for I have heard
that he was as brave a man as ever belted on a
broad-sword.  But rations of Nantz were more
plentiful under the Marshal Saxe than with Lord
Wellington's troops, and doubtless Evan Cameron
never went on guard without a good allowance."

"Deevil a bit, sir," replied the old man testily.
"Ye maun ken there was fechtin' and marchin'
enough and to spare, but neither pay nor plunder
could be gottin under King Louis.  In the year after
the battle o' Laffeldt, our chief, the gude and the
gallant Lochiel, died o' a broken heart, I'm free
to say, for the thocht o' being an exile for life
weighed heavy on his soul.  Sair I sorrowed for
him, and so did a' the Royal Scots regiment, for
there wasna ane that wadna hae laid doon his life
for Lochiel.  After seeing him laid in a foreign
grave, I cam awa' cannily hame, to live amang my
ain folk by bonnie Loch-Archaig, when the dool
and dirdum o' the 'forty-five' was a' passed awa'
and blawn ower."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A BATTLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A BATTLE.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Let blusterin' Suchet crously crack,
   |  Let Joseph rin the coward's track,
   |  Let Jourdan wish the bâton back
   |    He left upon *Vittoria*.
   |
   |  If e'er they meet their worthy king,
   |  Let them dance roun' him in a ring,
   |  And some Scottish piper play the spring
   |    He blew them at *Vittoria*.
   |
   |  Peace to the spirits of the brave,
   |  Let a' their trophies for them wave,
   |  And green be our Cadogan's grave
   |    Upon thy field, *Vittoria*."
   |                              *Scottish Song.*

.. vspace:: 2

In the long interval of time during which Lord
Wellington's army remained cantoned on the Spanish
frontier, no hostilities took place saving General
Foy's fruitless attack upon Bejar, and the defeat
of the French under General Frimont in the vale of
Sedano, near Burgos.  During the winter, supplies
of every kind,—pay in some instances excepted,—arrived
from Britain, to refit the army and enable it
to take the field, which it did in an efficient state in
the month of May, 1813.

During the long residence of the Gordon
Highlanders in the valley of Banos, they had become
quite domesticated among its inhabitants; and it
was a daily occurrence to see them assisting in
household matters,—working with the men in the
gardens and vineyards, or carrying about in their
arms the little children of the patrona on whom they
were quartered; and before the battalion departed,
the venerable *cura*, had wedded, for weal or woe,
several of the olive-cheeked maidens of the valley
to men who wore the garb of old Gaul.

On the 13th of May the corps marched from
Banos, and the entire population of the secluded
vale accompanied them to the end of the pass, and
watched them until the notes of the war-pipes died
away in the wind, and the last bayonet gave a
farewell flash in the sun-light as the rear-guard
descended the mountains towards the plain of Bejar,
where Sir Rowland Hill mustered and reviewed the
gathering brigades of his division.

The troops presented a very different appearance
now from the way-worn, ragged, and shoeless band
which, in the close of the last year, had retired from
Burgos.  Fresh drafts of hale and plump British
recruits had filled up the vacancies caused by
wounds, starvation, and disease; and a few months
in quarters had restored the survivors to health and
strength: the new clothing had completely renovated
their appearance, and all were in high spirits,
and eager again to behold their old acquaintances,
Messieurs the French.  Sir Rowland complimented
Fassifern on the appearance of his Highlanders, who
cocked their plumes more gaily now than ever, as
they marched past to "the garb of old Gaul."  Truly,
new scarlet jackets, Paisley tartan, and bonnets
from "skull-cleeding Kilmarnock," had wrought
a wonderful change upon their ranks.

Although the Duke of Dalmatia and many battalions
of French had been ordered into Germany,
Buonaparte's army in Spain still mustered 160,000
strong.  King Joseph, at the head of 70,000 men,
kept his head-quarters at Madrid; the rest were
scattered through the eastern provinces, under
Suchet and other commanders.  It was determined by
the British and Spanish governments to make one
grand and determined effort to drive the French
across the Pyrenees, on again taking the field
against them.  An efficient train of pontoons was
fitted out to assist in crossing those deep and rapid
rivers by which Spain is so much intersected.
Every thing which would tend to the comfort of
troops on service had been provided; and the army
in the end of May, as I have before stated,
commenced offensive measures against the enemy.

Lord Wellington, with the light division, moved
on Salamanca; Sir Thomas Graham crossed the
Douro, with orders to move on Braganza, Zamora,
and Tras-os-montes, and to form a junction with the
allies at Valladolid; while Sir Rowland Hill, from
Estremadura, was to march on the same point by
Alba de Tormes.  By these movements the allies
turned that position on the Douro which the French
generals had resolved to defend; and so rapid was
their march, that General Villatte, who occupied
Salamanca with three thousand men, had barely
time to effect a retreat, with the loss of two
hundred, and a few pieces of artillery.  The able
Wellington, after placing the right and centre divisions
in cantonments between the Douro and Tormes,
joined Sir Thomas Graham, whose troops, after
encountering many difficulties in crossing rivers,
ravines, and mountains, over which they had to
drag their heavy artillery and pontoons, took up a
position on the left, in communication with the
Spanish army of Galicia under General Castanos.

The French, who were utterly unprepared for these
rapid movements, retired precipitately, destroying in
their retreat the bridges at Toro and Zamora; and
the combined army now directed its march in
triumph on Valladolid, one of the finest cities of Old
Castile, and one which might be styled a city of
convents, as it contains no fewer than seventy,—one
of them the palace of Philip IV.  Crossing Escueva,
the allies continued to press impetuously forward,
and the enemy to retire unresistingly before them.
Joseph abandoned Madrid, concentrated the French
legions around the castle of Burgos, which he blew
up on the 13th of June, and with his whole force
retired under the cloud of night towards the Ebro, the
passage of which his generals made every preparation
to defend.  But again he and they were signally
baffled by the skill, talent, and penetration of
Wellington, who moving his troops by the San Andero
road, crossed the river near its source at Puente de
Arenas and San Martino, a measure which so
disconcerted the plans of Joseph and Marshal Jourdan,
that they were again compelled to retreat, and the
allied army continued its march to Vittoria.

On the 20th of June the second division encamped
on the plain of Puebla, near Vittoria.  The first
brigade was then commanded by the Hon. William
Stuart (a brother of the Earl of Galloway) a true
and gallant soldier of the old school, whose valuable
services received no requital from his country.

The time had now arrived when Joseph was
compelled to make a final and determined stand
in defence of the crown he had usurped, or behold
it torn ingloriously from his brow, and on the very
ground where Edward the Black Prince, on the
3rd of April, 1367, totally defeated another intruder
on the Spanish soil—Henry the Bastard, and
restored Don Pedro to the crown of Castile.[\*]  The
time was likewise arrived when the legions of
France, whose movements since the commencement
of the campaign had been a series of retreats, should
make a decisive effort to renew their fading laurels,
or by being driven disgracefully across the Pyrenees,
lose for ever that hard-earned fame which they won
under the banners of the great Emperor.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] This battle was fought at Navarete, a village on the
Zadorra, near Vittoria.
See the Chronicles of Sir John Froissart.

.. vspace:: 2

Early on the morning of the 21st of June the
allies were in motion; Sir William Stuart's brigade
moved in front of the second division, which marched
along the high road to Vittoria.  The morning
was beautiful, the earth was fresh with dew, and
the merry larks were soaring aloft over bright
yellow fields, which were soon to be drenched with
blood.  The sky was clear, blue, and cloudless, and
the shining current of the Zadorra flowed among
thickets and fields of ripe waving corn, which often
afforded concealment to the light troops during the
action.  Violets, cowslips, and a thousand little
flowers which flourish so plentifully by the way-sides in
Spain, were blooming gaudily in the fresh dew; the
brown partridge was whirring about, and ever and
anon a fleet rabbit shot past as the troops moved
into the corn-fields, treading and destroying the
hopes and support of many a poor husbandman.
Afar off, their hues mellowed by the distance, rose
the bold and lofty ridges of the Pyrenees and other
sierras, the outlines of which appeared distinctly
against the pure blue beyond.  Save the near tread
of feet, or the distant blast of a bugle, no other
sounds were borne on the morning wind but the
bleating of sheep and goats, or a matin-bell tinkling
in some solitary hermitage, calling its superstitious
inmates to prayer for the success of the friends of
Spain.

To the British it was known that the enemy were
in position in front, and every heart beat high, and
every fibre was thrilling with excitement, as the
columns moved towards the plains in front of the
town of Vittoria.  Moving in close column of
companies, the Highlanders marched through a field of
ripened corn, which nearly overtopped the plumes
of their bonnets.  The other corps of the division
followed and then halted for a time, during which
the crop, which was all ready for the sickle, was soon
trodden to mire.  But 'necessity has no law.'  The
flints were examined, the colours uncased, and
the drummers were provided with temporary litters,
formed of pikes and blankets, for bearing off
the wounded officers.

Fassifern's eyes kindled up with that bright and
peculiar expression which they ever had when he
became excited.

"Highlanders!" cried he, as the regiment again
moved forward, "in a few minutes we shall be
engaged with the enemy; but I need not exhort you
to do your duty, for in that you have never yet
failed.  Keep the strictest silence on the march, but
you may shout till the mountains ring again when
the pipes blow to the charge."

"Fu' surely and brawly well set up a skraigh
then, lads!" said his equerry, Dugald Mhor, who
was the only man who dared to reply.  "But it's
an unco' thing for Hielandmen to keep their tongues
still, whan the bonnie sheen o' steel is glintin' in their
een.  Troth, lads, we'll gie a roar that will mak'
Buonaparte himsel shake in his shoon, if he be
within hearin'."

The soldiers began to cheer and laugh, while
Dugald waved his bonnet, but the voice of the colonel
arrested them.

"Silence, Dugald!" said he to that aged follower,
who with his sword drawn stuck close to the flanks
of his horse; "silence!  You always create some
uproar in the ranks by your odd observations.
I am ever apprehensive that you will thrust yourself
needlessly into danger; and indeed it would relieve
me of much anxiety, if you would remain in the
rear.  You know well, Dugald, how much I would
regret it, should any thing happen to you during
the engagement to-day."

"That depends just upon yoursel, sir: whar ye
lead, I will follow," replied the old man, whom the
world would not have tempted to separate himself
from Cameron, who had often insisted on many
occasions that Dugald should not peril himself by
coming under fire.  These were injunctions which
the obstinate old vassal valued not a rush; and so
in these good-natured altercations the master was
always overcome by the man, who seemed to regard
fighting rather as a sport or a pleasant source
of excitement, just as one would view a fox or
stag-hunt.

While Major Campbell was boring Ronald Stuart
with a painfully accurate account of the battle of
Alexandria, and the position of the French forces
on that memorable occasion, the legions of Joseph
Buonaparte appeared in sight.  As each regiment
quitted the path among the corn-fields and entered
upon the plain before Vittoria, they came in view of
the whole battle-array of the enemy, occupying a
strong position covering each of the three great
roads, which at Vittoria concentrate in the road to
Bayonne.  The long lines of dark infantry appeared
perfectly motionless, but their burnished arms were
shining like silver in the sun; the tri-colours of the
legions were fluttering in the breeze, and many of
their bands struck-up the gay *Cà ira* and *Marseillois*
hymn on the approach of the allies.

The right flank of Joseph's army extended northward
from Vittoria, across the stream of the Zadorra,
and rested on the hills above the villages of
Gamarra Mayor and Abechuco, covered there by strong
redoubts.  Between the right and centre was a thick
cork wood, into which were thrown many corps of
infantry to keep open the line of communication.
The right centre rested on a height which
commanded the vale of the Zadorra, and which was
strengthened by nearly one hundred pieces of artillery.
Their left and centre occupied the bold ridges
above the village of Subijana de Alava, with a *corps
de reserve* posted at Gomecha, and a brigade thrown
forward on the lofty and rocky mountains of Puebla
to protect their centre, which might have been
outflanked by the main road where it crosses the
Zadorra.  Joseph Buonaparte in person commanded the
whole, having Marshal Jourdan acting under him as
lieutenant-general.  The armies were pretty well
matched, each mustering from 70,000 to 75,000 men,
the French having the advantage in occupying a
strong position, which every means had been taken
to strengthen.

Each regiment of Hill's division, on its debouching
from the Vittoria road, formed line from close
column, and advanced in that order towards the enemy.
To the latter the view of the allied army at that hour
must have presented a grand and imposing
spectacle; so many dense masses moving successively
into the plain, and deploying into line by companies
obliquely, with all the steadiness and regularity of a
review; the bright barrels and bayonets of upwards
of 70,000 musquets shining in the rays of the morning
sun; the silken standards of many colours,—red,
buff, white, blue, and yellow, waving over them; the
bright scarlet uniforms, relieved by the varied green
of the landscape; and then the many warlike sounds
increased the effect of the scene.  The neighing of
cavalry horses, the roll of tumbrils and gun-carriages,
the distant yet distinct word of command,—the
mingling music of many bands, the trumpets of
the horse, the bugles of the riflemen, and the hoarse
wailing war-pipe of the Highland regiments, ever and
anon swelled upon the breeze, pealing among the
heights of Puebla, and dying away among the
windings in the vale of Zadorra.

The prospect before them must have been one
of no ordinary interest to the martial legions of
France.  At the moment that the distant bells of
the convent of Santa Clara de Alava struck a quarter
to ten, the memorable battle of Vittoria began.

"There go the Spaniards,—the soldiers of old
Murillo!" exclaimed Seaton, as a loud and continued
discharge of musquetry rang among the ridges of
Puebla.  The sound caused every heart to bound,
for the day was big with the fate of many!

"Murillo and the Condé d'Amarante have
attacked the left of the French," said Cameron,
watching the operations through his telescope; "but
they will be compelled to retire unless succoured,
and that promptly, too!  The heights are becoming
covered with smoke——  By heavens! they are
giving way."

At that moment an aide-de-camp dashed up to
the brigade, with Sir Rowland's order for the 71st
regiment to advance, and sustain the attack on the
heights, in concert with the light companies of the
division, while the Highlanders and 50th regiment
were to support them in turn.

"Now then, Stuart!" said Seaton, giving Ronald
an unceremonious slap on the shoulder, "see if
another gold cross is to be won upon Puebla.  We shall
be under fire in five minutes,—forward, light bobs!
Forward double-quick!"  Away they went in high
spirits to the assistance of old Murillo, whose troops
were already wavering, under the steady fire of
the French.  The roar of cannon and musquetry
had now become general along the lines, and was
absolutely astounding.  War on a great scale is a
grand, yet a terrible thing.  The whole valley of the
Zadorra,—the fortified heights of Gomecha on the
enemy's right, those of Puebla on their left, the dark
woodlands between, the corn-fields, the hedges, and
all the grassy plain below, were enveloped in smoke,
streaked with continual flashes of fire.  In the
villages every hut had become a fortress, loop-holed
and barricaded, every wall of cabbage-garden and
vineyard a breastwork, for possession of which
armed men contested desperately, hand to hand,
and point to point.

The Honourable Colonel Cadogan commanded
the 71st, and other companies, which moved up the
heights to the assistance of the Spaniards on the
extreme of the British right.  Forming line on the
hillside, they advanced with a determination and
impetuosity truly admirable towards the enemy, whose close
and deadly fire was thinning their numbers rapidly.

"Now, soldiers! upon them like fury!  Forward,
charge!" cried Cadogan, dashing spurs into his
horse's sides.  A loud hurrah was the reply, and
simultaneously they pushed forward with the bayonet,
and rushing like a torrent through clouds of smoke
and sweeping volleys of shot, fell headlong upon the
enemy, and all was for a time hewing with the
sword and butt, or stabbing with bayonet and pike.
A severe and bloody struggle ensued, but the French
were driven tumultuously from the heights, after
suffering immense loss, and having their commanding
officer captured.

Ronald, who was then engaged in a charge for the
first time, became bewildered,—almost stunned with
the whirl, the din, and the wild uproar around him.
The excitement of the soldiers had been raised to
the utmost pitch, and they became, as it were,
intoxicated with the danger, smoke, noise, blood, and
death which surrounded them.

Impetuously they continued to press forward upon
the foe with all the fury of uncurbed steeds, and the
conflict was renewed, foot to foot, breast to breast,
bayonet to bayonet, and with eyes of fire men
glared at each other above their crossed weapons.
When rushing forward with his company, at the
moment they mingled with the enemy, Stuart
encountered—or I should rather say, when half-blinded
with smoke ran violently against a French officer,
a cut from whose sabre he parried with his dirk,
while, at the moment, he passed his sword through
his shoulder, hurling monsieur to the earth with the
force of the thrust.  At that instant he was stunned
and laid prostrate by a blow on the back part of the
head, dealt from behind by the butt-end of a
firelock, or truncheon of a pike.  Vainly he strove to
regain his feet, but reeled senseless on the sod, and
the last sounds he heard were the triumphant cheers
of the British, drowning the feebler cry of *Vive
l'Empereur!* from their antagonists.  Almost at the
same moment the brave Colonel Cadogan fell from
his horse, writhing on the grass with the agony of a
mortal wound.  A yell burst from his regiment, the
Highland Light Infantry, as they beheld him fall; an
echoing shout broke from their companions, and
redoubling their efforts with the bayonet, after
frightful carnage, they obliged the enemy to retire
precipitately down the mountains.  Their left was thus
completely routed and in disorder, and the British
flag waved triumphantly on the bloody summits of
Puebla.

Encouraged by this good fortune, Sir Rowland
Hill ordered his second and third brigades to attack
the heights of Subijana de Alava, which were gallantly
carried after a severe and stern conflict.  King
Joseph, alarmed at the loss of these important
positions, directed his left wing to fall back for the
defence of Vittoria, and Sir Rowland, pressing forward
with his usual vigour, followed up this retreating
movement.

Cole and Picton attacked their centre, and after a
spirited resistance the whole chain of heights was
abandoned, and the French army began to retire, but
in admirable order, on Vittoria.  General Graham
dislodged the enemy from the hills above Abechuco,
and his countryman General Robertson, without
permitting his troops to fire a shot, but solely acting
with the bayonet, drove them from Gamarra Mayor
after great slaughter, and sustaining during the
advance a tremendous fire of cannon and musquetry.
Towards evening Graham's division was pushed
forward across the Zadorra, and ordered to secure the
road leading to Bayonne.  By that time Lord
Wellington's centre had penetrated to Vittoria, and the
enemy's right wing had totally given way.  All was
now lost, and the greatest confusion ensued among
the foe.  The court equipage of King Joseph, the
baggage, the artillery, and the military chest of his
army were all captured.  Those columns retreating
on the road to Bayonne were driven like herds of
sheep back upon that which leads to Pampeluna,
and then the French army became one vast mob, a
disorganized and fugitive rabble.  Joseph, owing his
safety to the swiftness of his horse, abandoned the
wreck of his troops and fled towards Pampeluna,
hotly pursued by Captain Wyndham with a squadron
of the 10th Hussars.  In this great victory the
loss of the allied army amounted to 5,000, and that
of the French to 6,000 or upwards, and the defeat
of the survivors was attended by every accompaniment
of disgrace.  A thousand prisoners were captured
by the allies, and of the two solitary guns, of
all his immense train, which Joseph succeeded in
taking off, *one* alone reached Pampeluna, the other
being taken next day.

Lord Wellington deserves the highest admiration
for the excellence of his dispositions and manoeuvres
during the whole of that brilliant campaign, and
most decisive victory.  Every arrangement, every
movement of the French generals had been completely
baffled and disconcerted by his superior skill
and military talents.  In four weeks, he had driven
them from Madrid to Vittoria, turning their strong
positions on the Douro and Ebro, and at last
compelling Joseph and Jourdan to show fight at a
point where their army was utterly destroyed.

The battle had almost been fought and won while
Ronald Stuart lay senseless among the heaps of
killed and wounded on the hills of Puebla.  The
French, after being repulsed from the latter, detached
a legion, 7,000 strong, to recover them, which
movement being perceived by General Stewart, he
despatched Fassifern with his Highlanders to the
assistance of the troops already there.  The regiment
moved quickly to the front, and after inconceivable
exertions gained the summit by clambering up the
steepest part of the mountains, a feat perhaps only
to have been performed by Scots or Switzers.  They
soon reached the spot where the desperate charge
had been made.  Cadogan lay there drenched in his
blood, and the carnage around him showed how
fierce had been the conflict.

"Our light company men are lying thick here,"
said Fassifern, as he looked sternly around him.

"Here is Stuart," exclaimed Bevan.  "Poor fellow,
this is his last field!"  The regiment passed in
open column, double-quick, beyond the place where
Ronald lay to all appearance, what his brother
officers thought him to be, dead.  Close by him lay
Torriano, a lieutenant of the 71st, severely wounded,
but there was no time to look at them.  The
Highlanders moved onward to the assistance of their
friends the 50th and Highland Light Infantry, who
were severely handled by the enemy on the other
side of the heights.  There the carnage was
appalling in some parts, where the ranks of friend and
foe had fallen across each other in piles.  Smoke and
bright flashing steel were seen every where, and the
echoes of the musquetry reverberated among the
deep ravines and grassy summits of La Puebla.
The overwhelming legion were still advancing; they
had out-flanked the 71st, and cut off its communication
with the 50th; and the superiority of the
French numerical force was compelling these brave
regiments to waver, when the cheers of their
Highland comrades rang among the mountains, as they
descended to their assistance.  As Cadogan had
fallen, the command of the troops devolved on
Fassifern, and, acting under his orders, the three
battalions compelled the legion to retire in
disgrace and disorder.

Three other attacks did they make in succession,
and with greater strength, but the attempts were
vain.  The first brigade were resolved to hold
Puebla or perish, and Cameron continually drove them
back.  As the Highlanders said, "their hearts werna
stoot eneuch for sae stey a brae," and the proud
Frenchmen were compelled to abandon all hopes
of regaining the important position.

Ronald lay long insensible where he fell, and when
life returned the first sounds which saluted his ears
were the distant roar of the musquetry, and all the
confused din of a great battle, which the breeze bore
up from the plains to the mountains where he lay.
From loss of blood and the stunning effects of the
blow, he was long unable to rise or even to speak;
but his ear was intensely awake to every sound
around him, and he eagerly longed to know how
the tide of battle was turning in the valley below.
The aching and smarting pain in his head was
excessive.  He placed his hand behind, and withdrew
it covered with blood, and closing his eyes, again
sunk backwards on the gory turf.  Although his
ears were invaded by the distressing cries and
hoarse groans of agony from the wounded around
him, his heart wandered to that Highland home
where his very soul seemed to be garnered up; and
in that terrible moment he would have given the
universe, were it his, for a single glance at the
heather hills and the wild woods around the old grey
tower of Lochisla.  He thought of his white-haired
sire, and of what would be his sufferings and
feelings should his only son perish in the land of the
stranger.  Alice, too,—but the thought of her
inspired him with new life and spirit.  He rose and
unclasped her miniature, which was clotted and
covered with his blood: he restored it to his breast,
and looked about him.  As the noise of the battle
still continued without abatement, and he heard the
shouts and battle-cry of the French mingled with
the cheers of the British at times, he asked a French
soldier who sat near him, shot through the leg, if he
knew how the day had gone.  He answered, without
a moment's hesitation, that the troops of the great
Emperor had outflanked, beaten, and cut to pieces
those of Wellington, who was on the road to Lisbon,
flying as fast as his horse could carry him.  Although
Ronald put little dependance on this information, he
resolved to satisfy himself.  The Frenchman kindly
bound up his head, and gave him a little brandy from
his canteen; for which the Scotsman gave him his
earnest thanks, being quite unable to yield more
solid remuneration, not having seen a day's pay for
six months.  Making use of his sword as a support,
he got upon his feet, and all things seemed to swim
around him as he staggered forward.

Cadogan had been carried off by two soldiers of
his own regiment, but his horse was lying dead
upon a wounded Highlander, who had long struggled
to free himself from its oppressive weight,
and now called aloud to Ronald, who was
unable to yield him the slightest assistance.  As he
passed slowly onwards to that part of the heights
whence he expected to have a view of the whole
battle-field, he beheld the officer whom he had
encountered lying dead, pierced with a score of
bayonet wounds.  A soldier of the light company lay
dead across him, with his face literally dashed to
pieces by a blow from the butt-end of a musquet,
and so much was he disfigured that it was impossible
to recognise him.  Close by a piper of the
71st lay dead, with his pipe under his arm: his
blood had formed a black pool around him of more
than a yard square.  Hundreds were lying everywhere
in the same condition, but further details
would only prove tiresome or revolting.

With much difficulty, Stuart gained the extremity
of the ridge, and the whole soul-stirring display of
the field of Vittoria burst at once upon his gaze,
extending over a space of ground fully six miles in
length.  Truly, thicker than leaves in autumn, the
bodies of men were strewed along the whole length
of the hostile armies.  The warm light of the setting
sun was beaming on the mountain tops, but its
lustre had long since faded on the sylvan vale of the
Zadorra, where the shadows of evening were setting
on the pale faces of the dead and the dying.  The
plains of Vittoria, too, were growing dark, but at
the first view Ronald was enabled to perceive, and
his heart beat proudly while he did so, that the
allies had conquered, and the boastful story of the
Gaul was false.

Afar off he beheld dense clouds of dust rolling
along the roads which led to Pampeluna and
Bayonne.  There the glistening arms were flashing in
the light of the western sky, as the brigades of
British cavalry swept on like whirlwinds, charging
and driving before them, *sabre à la main*, the
confused masses of French infantry, who, when their
position was abandoned, retired hurriedly towards
the main roads for France.  He saw his own
division far down the plain, driving a column like a
herd of sheep along the banks of the river towards
Vittoria; beyond which they pursued them, until the
smoke of the conflict and the dust which marked
its route were hidden by the cloud of night.

But long before this he had begun to descend
the hills, and weak and wearied as he was, he found
it no easy task to scramble among the furze, briars,
and brambles with which their sides were covered.
At the foot of them he found many men of his own
regiment lying dead.  These had been slain by the
fire of a few field-pieces, which the French had
brought to bear upon them while moving towards
Puebla.  The moon broke forth when he reached
the banks of the Zadorra, which he forded, the water
rising up to his waist.  This drenching added greatly
to his misery, as the night was cold and chilly; but
he walked onward as rapidly as he could, with the
hope of reaching Subijana de Alava, Vittoria, or
any place where he might hope to get his wound
dressed, after which he trusted that he should be
able to rejoin the regiment without delay.  But
losing his way, he wandered across the field, where
the bodies of men and horses, dead or yet rolling
about, broken waggons, dismounted or abandoned
cannon, encumbered him at every step.

No shrieks now saluted his ears as he passed over
the plain; but groans—deep and harrowing groans
of agony, and half-muttered cries for water or pious
ejaculations were heard on every side, while the
ghastly and distorted faces, the glazed and upturned
eyes, the black and bloody wounds of the dead
appeared horrible, as the pale light of the moon fell
on them.  The vast field, although so many
thousand men lay prostrate upon it, was, comparatively
speaking, still; and to Ronald there seemed something
sad and awful in the silence which succeeded
the ear-deafening roar of the battle which had rung
there the live-long day.  Many a strong hand was
stretched there powerless, and many a gallant heart,
which had beat high with hope and bravery in the
morning, lay there cold enough at night.

Little think the good folk at home,—those who
for days would be haunted by the memory of some
sudden death, which possibly they had witnessed in
the streets,—little do these good people imagine, or
perhaps care, for the mighty amount of misery
accumulated on a single battle-field, and the woe it may
carry into many a happy home and domestic circle.
But the agony of dying men, and the tears of women,
are alike forgotten and unheeded when forts fire,
cities illuminate, balls are given, and mails sweep
along, decorated with flags and laurels, in honour
of a victory......

Eager to leave the field behind him, Stuart hurried
forward as well as he was able, until, stumbling
over a dead cavalry horse, he fell violently to the
earth, and his wound bursting out afresh, the light
faded from his eyes, and he lay in a sort of stupor
across the corse of a French soldier, in whose breast
a twelve-pound shot was buried.  While lying there
he became tortured with an intense thirst, which
he found it impossible to alleviate, until a drizzling
rain began to descend, and after exercising his
patience, he caught enough in the hollow of his hand
to moisten his parched lips.

The sound of voices close by recalled him to
himself fully, and he found that he was in imminent
danger.  A file of Portuguese soldiers approached,
bearing a lantern to assist them in effectually
plundering the dead.  The knapsacks of soldiers were
ripped open, and the contents carefully scanned;
and the epaulets, lace, stars, &c. were torn away
from the uniforms of the officers.  Stuart's blood
boiled up within him to behold brother-soldiers,
men in arms, engaged in an occupation so truly
despicable; but well aware of the danger incurred
by encountering or threatening people so unscrupulous
as death-hunters[\*] he only grasped the hilt
of his dirk, and lay perfectly still until they had
passed by, which they luckily did without observing him.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Death-hunters,—a name given by soldiers to those who
follow armies to strip the dead after a battle.

.. vspace:: 2

Scarcely were they gone when another wretch
appeared, bent on the same disgraceful errand.  He
was either a robber or guerilla, and carried on the
hollow of his left arm a musquet, from which
dangled a long leather sling.  A pewter crucifix
glittered on the band of his broad-leaved hat, and the
polished brass hilts of the double daggers and pistols
in his sash gleamed in the light of the moon, which
at that moment shone forth with peculiar brilliancy.
A new pair of large epaulets, which Stuart had put
on a few days before, attracted this worthy's
attention, and he came straight towards the wearer
to possess himself of them.

What were the feelings of the young Highlander
to behold in the robber the abhorred Narvaez
Cifuentes, the destroyer of the noble and beautiful
Catalina!  An electric shock seemed to pass over
every fibre, and again his heart beat violently.  He
grasped tighter the thistle-hilt of his short weapon,
and watched with an eagle eye the motions of the
robber.  Narvaez knew him the moment their eyes
met, and uttering a short but emphatic oath, he
sprung forward and leaped upon Ronald with his
whole weight, and pressing a knee upon each arm,
perfectly incapacitated him from making any defence,
especially in his weak and wounded state.

"How now, my gay *senor soldado*!" said Narvaez
with a chuckling laugh, after they had glared at
each other in silence for a few seconds.  "Methinks
we have met at last, under circumstances somewhat
disadvantageous to your safety."

Ronald's only reply was a frantic attempt to free
himself from the iron grasp of the other.

"Be still,—*carajo*!" said the ruffian as he
unsheathed a poniard; "be still, or I may mercifully
give a deep stroke at once, without having the little
conversation I wish to enjoy with you, before you
die."

"Dog of a robber!—dog of a Spaniard!" gasped
Ronald in a hoarse accent.  "Free but my right
hand and, weak and exhausted as I am, I will
meet you—"

"Ho, *Demonios!* a rare request!  *Par Diez!*
no, no, *mi amigo*.  I will have these bright
epaulets, (which I beg you will not spoil by struggling
so,) and I will have this golden cross and other
things, without either the risk or trouble of trying
points with you.  Hah! have you forgotten the night
when we first met at Albuquerque?  By our Lady
of Majorga, you shall this night know that I have
not!  We have many odd scores to pay off, and
they may as well be settled here on the field of
Vittoria, as elsewhere.  Besides, Senor Valour, when
your corpse is found, you will be mentioned among
the killed in the *Gaceta de la Regencia*.  Hah! hah!"

"Wretch! you forget that this day my blood
has been shed for Spain and Ferdinand VII.!"

"You have been paid for that, I suppose," replied
the fellow, accompanying his observation, which
might have suited a British radical, with an
insultng laugh, while Stuart, panted with rage.

"Now, then,—what would you do were you released
by me?"

"Stab you to the heart!"

The robber laughed.

"*Cuidado* was ever my motto," said he; "a dead
man tells no tales."

Grasping and compressing Ronald's throat with
his left hand, he flourished aloft his right, which
held his stiletto, a sharp short dagger, with a round
blade like that instrument known as a butcher's
steel.  "Now, *valiente senor*, compound for death,
and not for life?  I may prolong your tortures,
giving a hundred stabs instead of one; but your dying
moment shall be easy, if the lining of your pockets
is tolerable.  A stab for every *duro*! hah! hah!"

That instinctive feeling which causes every man
to struggle to the utmost to preserve life, arose
powerfully in the breast of Ronald Stuart at that instant,
when he saw the deadly blade of the ruthless
assassin gleaming above him in the moonlight.  He
felt that his last moment was come, and yet he
resolved not to die without another gallant struggle.
Exerting every energy—straining every muscle and
fibre, by one desperate effort he hurled the robber
violently backwards; but before he could rise, his
merciless assailant again sprung upon him with
renewed ferocity, and striking blindly with his
stiletto, buried it twice in the turf close by Ronald's
ear.  There can be little doubt that this new attack
would have terminated fatally for him, had not two
officers, muffled to the eyes in their cloaks ridden
hastily up, upon which the robber, without attempting
to strike another blow, snatched up his rifle and
fled,—but not unscathed.

"A death-hunter!  He shall die, by heavens!"
exclaimed one of the strangers, snatching a pistol
from his holsters and firing after Cifuentes, who
was seen bounding with the speed of a greyhound
over the encumbered field, and the moon shone full
upon him.  A sharp howl of pain followed the
report of the shot.

"Your shot has told, my lord," said the other
officer.  "These rascals deserve no mercy."

"The fellow is leaping along yet.  I would again
fire, but for the waste of powder."

"He was struggling with some one here."

"Your arrival has been very fortunate," said
Ronald, in a voice which faltered from weariness
and excitement.  "I have had a protracted and
desperate struggle with the ruffian, and must have
perished under his hands at last, as I am weak
with loss of blood, and totally incapable of
defending myself."

"Put this to your mouth," said the first speaker,
"and take a hearty pull.  'Tis cold whisky-toddy,—a
beverage not often got so near the Pyrenees."

"Thanks, sir!" said Ronald, as he put the flask
to his lips, and drank gratefully of the contents.
"So we have gained the day."

"Gloriously!" replied the other.  "But where are
you wounded?"

"On the head,—by a blow from a musquet-butt,
or shaft of a pike.  I received it on the heights of
Puebla."

"Ah, there was sharp work there, when the battle
began this morning.  So you belong to the fighting
division—Sir Rowland's?  You have wandered
a long way from the heights."

"I was endeavouring to rejoin my regiment,"
replied Ronald, staggering up, and propping himself
with his sword; "I was loath to be absent while I
could lift a limb.  But to whom am I indebted for
my safety?  You are both countrymen, I believe,
by your voices."

"You are right," replied the officer who wounded
Cifuentes.  "This is Captain Ramsay, of the 18th
Hussars,—Ramsay of the Dyke-neuk-heid, as we
call him at home; and I am Lord Dalhousie.  We
are riding to join the seventh division."

"I was not aware to whom I had the honour
of addressing myself," said Ronald.  "I shall be
obliged by your lordship informing me where my
own regiment now is."

"The Gordon Highlanders, I presume?"

"Exactly, my lord,—in Stuart's, late Howard's
brigade."

"A brave regiment, and my heart warmed at the
sight of their tartans to-day.  They are a long way
from this, pursuing the French along the Pampeluna
road, and are probably as far as Salvatierra by this
time."

"Then I can never reach them to-night," said
Stuart dejectedly.

"Here are some of the Waggon-train," said the
earl.  "To their care we must consign you and be
off forthwith, as all the troops are pressing forward
en route for the Pyrenees."

As Dalhousie and his aide-de-camp rode off, the
noise of wheels and cracking of whips announced the
arrival of some of the Royal Waggon-train.  One
of the cars was advancing straight towards him, but
slowly, as its course was continually impeded by
the dead and wounded lying across its way.  An
officer of the train, with an immense plume in his
cocked-hat, and wearing the rich uniform of this
easy branch of the service, rode beside the waggon,
into which they were putting those wounded men
whose cries attracted their attention.

"The heights of Puebla?" said the waggon-officer,
in a tone of surprise and expostulation to another
who rode beside him.  "Oh! it is quite impossible
to detach any of my party so far."

"How, sir! so far?" replied the other angrily,
in the voice of Major Campbell.  "And is a brave
lad to bleed to death and have his bones picked by
the corbies, because a loon like you is afraid to
climb a hill?  By the Lord! he shall not perish
through the neglect of one like you, whose whole
share of a battle is seeing the smoke and hearing
the noise at a comfortable distance, and then coming
in with these infernal rattle-traps to pick up the
wounded when the danger is all over."

He of the waggons was too much enraged to reply
readily; and before he could speak, Ronald heard
the voices of Macdonald and Evan Iverach.

"Come, major, don't quarrel about it.  I am
afraid that it will be a fruitless errand seeking
Stuart among the heights.  Poor fellow!  I am too
sure he was quite dead when we passed him this
morning."

"Oh, Mr. Macdonald, dinna say sae!" groaned
Evan, who had been lamenting as they came along,
"dinna say sae!  I have had an awfu' day o' wae
and anxiety upon his account.  There he is—God
preserve me in my senses!  No, my een dinna deceive
me,—there he is!" cried Evan in a voice rising
into a scream nearly, while he rushed forward as
Stuart's figure, moving slowly towards them, met
his view.  Evan, as usual, began to caper and
dance, blubber and weep with joy, while
Campbell and Alister warmly shook the hand of his
master.

"Ha, Stuart, my lad!  I knew you were hard to
kill," said Campbell; "and so, in spite of Alister's
assertions that you were gone 'to the land of the
leal,' I determined to set out in search of you as
soon as the regiment halted.  Old Ludovick Lisle
of ours would have been buried alive, once upon a
time, in Egypt, but for my interference.  He had
been struck down by an iron mace in some brawl
with a loon of a Mameluke, and I knew that he was
only stunned; so I poured a glass of brandy down
his throat, and brandy never failed to bring old
Ludovick to, whatever was the matter."

Ronald objected to entering the waggon, which
was already crowded, and the bottom of it was
covered with blood; so it moved off, the officer
telling Campbell he should hear from him in the
morning.  The major replied that he should be
very happy, and dismounting, gave his horse to
Stuart; who, as they moved along, gave a report of
his encounter with Cifuentes and interview with
Lord Dalhousie.

"He is a brave man, and a good officer," said
Campbell.  "And as for Ramsay, of the Dyke-neuk-heid,
he is, though a Lowlander, one of the finest
fellows I ever met, and the best mixer of Athol brose
and whisky-punch in the three kingdoms.  But we
must move forward as fast as possible.  Spur up
this nag, Stuart; he was a French dragoon horse
this morning, but has changed masters.  My poor
Rosinante, on which you ran such a rig at Almarez,
was shot under me as we ascended the heights.
Cameron likewise had his horse killed under him;
and, to make the matter worse, had another killed
over him, by which he was confoundedly bruised."

"But I see, major, that your left arm is in a sling."

"I received a scratch from the sabre of a French
sub, who assailed me before I could draw Andrea;
but I knocked him down with my stick, disarmed
and took him prisoner."

"Well, Alister, I rejoice to see you have escaped
this time; and Evan, my trusty fellow, too."

"A' sound and haill, sir; but I had a narrow
escape frae a sharp-shooter birkie, wha put three
shot through my bonnet just before the regiment
cam' rattling doon the brae to our assistance."

"And how have the corps fared throughout this
eventful day?"

"Easily indeed," replied Macdonald, "considering
how our friends the 71st and the 50th have been
cut up."

"Where is the regiment?"

"Bivouacked a few miles in front of Vittoria.
None of the officers are killed, but some are
wounded,—Cameron by the fall of his horse, which was
killed by a twelve-pound shot, and Seaton had his
left arm shot through; but the moment it was dressed
he rejoined, and is probably now with his 'light
bobs.'  At the foot of the hills we lost a Serjeant
and many men by the fire of the enemy's cannon,
but—"

"But we had our vengeance to the full," cried
Campbell, brandishing his stick.  "They have lost
as much as was ever tint at Shirra-muir.  Forgetting
the crown of Spain, only think, Stuart my man,—one
hundred and fifty splendid pieces of ordnance,
four hundred caissons laden with Lord knows what,
the plunder of all Spain, perhaps! some millions of
musquet cartridges, the baggage of the army, the
military chest, colours and drums innumerable, and
the baton of Jourdan, which he dropped in his hurry
or fright.  But the military chest—by Jove! had
you seen how free the 18th Hussars made with it,—every
rascal of them stuffing his boots to the brim
with gold Napoleons!  There will be a devil of a
row kicked up about it at the Horse Guards, you
may be sure of that.  We have captured I know not
how many carriages, every one full of the ladies of
Joseph's court: rare work we have had with them!
Alister, with twenty men, gallantly stormed one
vehicle at the point of the bayonet, and seized four
terrified young ladies,—one of whom I believe is
the Countess de Gazan, wife of the general of the
same name."

"How horrified the poor creatures were!" said
Macdonald.  "One train of court-carriages, in flying
away at full gallop to escape Graham's division,
which had intercepted their flight to Bayonne, came
among us, and were, of course, compelled to halt.
But they were treated with all due gallantry and
honour."

"Especially by Blacier's riflemen, who dragged
some ladies out without ceremony, and rummaged
them over like so many custom-house officers; and
with their bayonets tore and ripped up the rich silk
lining of the carriages, in hopes of finding concealed
jewellery."

"Germans are more proverbial for their greed,
than for devotion to the gentler sex.  But Lord
Wellington has despatched the ladies away to the
rear, among the prisoners taken in the battle."

"A knowing chield!" said the major.  "Some
of these French girls are pretty enough to turn the
hearts and heads of their captors.  Arthur knew
that, and thought them safer *en route* for Belem,
than in the midst of his army.  By my word! 'tis a
devil of a thing to hear a sweet young girl, with
bright black eyes, cherry lips, &c. &c., imploring
you in most dulcet French to spare her life, and all
that.  What the deuce!  Some of these fair
creatures to-day seemed to think they had got among
an army of ghoules or ogres, instead of honest
British soldiers."

"I forgive their terror," answered Ronald.  "Only
imagine what would be the feelings of British ladies,
falling as these did into the hands of a foreign army,
flushed and fierce with the excitement of such a
battle, the blood and glory of such a victory!"

On entering the town of Vittoria, they found it
filled with French and British wounded; and the
numbers were increasing, as the waggons went to
and fro between the field and town, which soon
became converted into an hospital.  Cries, groans,
and thrilling exclamations of suffering rang from
every house; and men were lying in ranks below
the piazzas of the market-place, waiting till their
wounds could be looked to; and in every street lay
scores of weary and maimed soldiers, who, unable
to proceed further, had sunk down bleeding and
expiring, helpless as babes, without a hand to close
their eyes.

Stuart's wound was of too little importance to
procure immediate attendance, all the surgeons being
hard at work, with their shirt sleeves turned up,
hewing off legs and arms mercilessly, as was their
will and pleasure in those days.  On with the
tourniquet, and off with the limb, was the mode then;
any attempt to reduce a fracture being considered a
waste of time, and a style of cure troublesome alike
to patient and physician.  After searching about
for some time to find a son of Esculapius
unemployed, but without success, they adjourned to a
café immediately within the Santa Clara gate.

The large drinking-room was crowded with officers,
some of whom had got their scars dressed,
and, in defiance of the orders of *el medico*, were
quaffing horn after horn of the country wine, in
honour of the victory.  Seaton, with his arm slung,
was thus employed in one corner with an officer of
the 50th, whose head was wrapped in a bloody
handkerchief.  Many others were in the same trim;
and the conversation consisted of loud and
boisterous observations and criticisms on this and that
movement—the advance of one division, the retreat
of another—promotion, brevet, thanks of parliament,
a medal,—and so on; and all were lavish in their
animadversions on the 18th Hussars, for making so
free with the military chest.  Their observations
were often mingled with loud and reckless military
merriment, and an occasional hearty malediction on
some wound which would not cease bleeding, or an
exclamation of pain at the twinges it gave.  Many
Spanish officers were sitting over chess-tables,
absorbed in their favourite national game, forgetting
altogether, in the interest which it excited, the
battle so recently gained, and which was of so much
importance to the liberties of their country.  But it
has been truly remarked by some one, that, give the
Spaniard his cigar, his sun-shine, his *querido*, and
amusements, and it is all one to him whether Spain
is ruled by a Solon or a Caligula.

In another corner of the drinking-room, a Spanish
colonel was sitting coolly with a napkin and brass
bason under his chin, undergoing the operation of
being shaved by the senior surgeon of his regiment,
as it is, or was, the duty of that officer to take off the
colonel's beard every morning, or whenever required.
So much for the dignity of the medical profession
in Spain.

Enveloped in a cloud of tobacco-smoke, which
left no part of him visible but his twinkling grey
eyes and red snub nose, Captain Blacier occupied
the opposite corner, busy in preparing a luxurious
German dish, the ingredients for which he
produced from the havresack of glazed canvas which he
carried with his blanket on his back.  A large tin
trencher stood before him, and into it he was
shredding a cabbage, which he had picked up
when skirmishing in the neighbourhood of Salvatierra
the preceding day; and after sprinkling over
it pepper, salt, vinegar, and garlic, he began to eat
with infinite relish.

After getting his wound dressed by the Spanish
medico, and after drinking a few horns of *agua y vino*,
Ronald procured a light forage-cap in place of his
heavy plumed bonnet, and accompanied by Seaton
and those who found him on the field, he set out
for the regiment, which, with Hill's whole division,
lay bivouacked six miles in front of Vittoria, where,
after pursuing the French till past midnight, they
had halted.

On being accommodated with a horse, Ronald
was enabled to accompany the troops, which moved
next day to drive the enemy across the Pyrenees.
Acting with his usual promptitude, Wellington
pushed onward with the third, fourth, and light
divisions to Pampeluna, whence the ex-king Joseph,
with the greater part of his shattered host, retired
into France by the famous pass of Roncesvalles;
while the rest, under the command of General Gazan,
retired by the vale of El Bastan.

Lord Wellington surrounded Pampeluna, which
was yet held by a French garrison; and Graham,
who with the left wing of the allies had pursued
the retreating enemy on the great road for France,
came up with a corps near Tolosa, which he attacked
and defeated, and driving them across the Bidassoa,
boldly invested the strong fortress of San Sebastian,
from the towers of which yet waved the tri-colour
and the standard of King Joseph.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN OUT-PICQUET ADVENTURE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN OUT-PICQUET ADVENTURE.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Far, far away, in a strange country,
   |    The soldier watch is keeping,
   |  Beneath some tower at midnight hour,
   |    When all besides are sleeping."
   |                            *Scots Song.*

.. vspace:: 2

To prevent the French from possessing themselves
of the Maya heights, Wellington directed the Earl
of Dalhousie, with his division, to threaten them by
moving on San Estevan; while Sir Rowland Hill,
with the first and three others of his brigades, made
a similar demonstration, by marching through the
wild and romantic pass of Lanz.

Along the whole line of march from Vittoria to the
Pyrenees, a distance of about one hundred miles, the
roads were strewed with dead or abandoned horses,
broken waggons, dilapidated carriages, military
caissons, and clothing of every kind; uniforms of
officers, rich dresses, laces, veils, and gloves of ladies,
which were torn forth from mails and imperials by
the rude hands of guerillas and caçadores, and
scattered about everywhere; thousands of French
commissariat returns, bundles of bank-notes, and packets
of letters, written to many who then lay cold beneath
the turf at Vittoria, were scattered over the ground
by which the French had retired.  Many poor stragglers,
disabled by wounds or starvation, fell into the
hands of the conquerors, and with others many ladies
of Joseph's court, who on escaping, when the
carriages were taken by Graham's division, had
attempted to make their way to the Pyrenees by
passing through wild and unfrequented places.
Many of these unfortunate creatures fell into the
power of the Spaniards, and were treated in a manner
too barbarous to relate; and others were seen by
the gentler British, fainting, expiring, or dead by the
way-side, bare-footed, almost naked, and reduced to
the most pitiable condition.  All who were found
alive were sent under an escort to the rear, to be
placed among the other prisoners.

The great chain of the Pyrenees was now before
the victors, and on the 3rd of July, Hill, with his
four brigades, began to ascend the heights.  After a
harassing march through that deep gorge among
the mountains which takes its name from the town
of Lanz, they came in view of the out-picquets of
General Gazan's corps, and arrangements were made
to drive them in forthwith.  Led by Fassifern, the
first brigade moved through the most solitary passes
of the mountains by a village named Almandos, and
took up a position on the left of Gazan's out-posts,
upon which Sir Rowland gave orders to attack them
in front.  On finding that Cameron had turned their
flank so effectually, they retired, firing by the way,
and reached their main body at Barreta, where a
sharp skirmish took place, in which the Condé
d'Amarante's Portuguese suffered considerably.

Next day, Gazan retired precipitately through
Elizondo followed by the Portuguese, who were
eager to revenge the slaughter of their comrades in
the preceding day's skirmish, and the troops
resumed their march towards the heights of Maya.

"Cheerily now, Highlandmen!" cried Campbell,
flourishing his cudgel, as he spurred his horse past
the heavily accoutred sections, who were toiling up
the mountains; "hold cheerily on, my lads!  Set
a stout heart to a stey brae,—ye mind the old saying
at home: ye'll soon see the high road to Britain,
the way we must all go, ere we see the curl of our
ain peat-reek."

A few hours' march brought them to the summits
of the Pyrenees, and afar off was seen the ocean,
which they had not beheld for so long.  It was the
way to their homes, and from a simultaneous
feeling, which inspired every man, three hearty cheers
awoke the echoes of the mountains; caps and
bonnets were tossed into the air,—the bands struck up
"Rule Britannia," and the pipers blew till their faces
grew purple and black.  The brigades halted for a
few minutes, and a dead silence succeeded the first
outbreak of their joy.  Every man's breast seemed
swelling with emotions, which he found it
impossible to communicate; but he read in the faces
of his comrades the same joy which quickened
the pulses of his own heart.  The sea,—the same
deep-heaving sea which swept around the rocks
and shores of their own country, now spread its
broad bosom before them; and long and wistfully
they gazed on the white sails of the solitary British
cruisers, which here and there dotted the dark-blue
waters of the Bay of Biscay.  The green ridges of
the Lower Pyrenees, the fertile plains and wooded
vales of France, lay spread at their feet like a
brightly-tinted map.  Saint Jean de Luz, the famous
and opulent Bayonne, and a thousand minor towns
and villages were seen from those lofty summits,
now trod by British soldiers for the first time.
Behind them lay sunny España, through which they
had toiled and fought their way, and where many
a comrade had found his grave,—but no man looked
to the rear.  Every eye was turned to the north,—on
France, which lay below them.  But stern and
bloody work was awaiting them, and many a one
whose heart then bounded with thoughts of his
native home, and with a thousand inexpressible hopes,
wishes, and fond anticipations, was doomed to find
his last resting-place on these very heights of Maya.

That night the troops bivouacked on the mountain
side, a league in front of Elizondo.  As it was
generally his luck after any march which had been
particularly long and tiresome, Ronald Stuart had
command of an advanced picquet, forming one of
the chain thrown out in the direction of Gazan's
division, which had taken up a position lower down
the mountains with the determination to dispute
every inch of ground that led to *la belle France*,—a
resolution which the Marquess of Wellington
determined to put to the test next day.  Stuart's
orders were to visit his sentries every hour throughout
the night, to keep them on the alert; a duty
which proved very harassing after so long a march,
as it was almost impossible to sleep in the short
intervals between the rounds.  However, fretting
would not have bettered the affair, and rolling
himself up in his cloak, he resolved to make himself
as comfortable as he possibly could.  A huge fire
lighted by the soldiers lessened the cold, and
counteracted the effects of a heavy wetting dew, which
falls amid these mountains at almost every season.

After his ration of beef had been broiled on the
embers, eaten without salt off the end of a ramrod,
and washed down with a canteen-full of that rich
cider, for the production of which the district around
Elizondo is so famous, after listening to the merry
bells of the town which were ringing in honour of
the British, and after watching until he grew weary
the varying effects of light and shade, as the red
blaze of a dozen picquet-fires glared on the beetling
crags, deep seams and gorges, or green sides of the
hills, he found it almost impossible to resist the
invasion of sleep.  Even the miniature of his
dark-haired Alice failed to enliven him, and he envied the
privates of his party, who, having neither command
nor responsibility, slept soundly by the fire, with
their knapsacks beneath their heads and their arms
piled beside them.  On consulting his watch to see
how the time went, he found that it was midnight,
and that an hour had elapsed since his last visit.
As it was necessary to be attended by some one, he
awoke Evan,[\*] and desiring him to take his arms,
moved towards his sentinels, whom he had considerable
trouble in discovering, as the night was intensely
dark.  All was right, every soldier was on
the alert, and Ronald was returning with his
follower through the winding and rocky path towards
the fire, which served as a beacon to guide them
to their post, and which they beheld glimmering
through the gloom some hundred yards off, when
a piercing cry rang through the still air, at a short
distance from the place where they were.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] An officer's servant is always on duty with his master.

.. vspace:: 2

"Hey, sir!" exclaimed Evan, beginning to unbuckle
his pouch; "what can that be, in sic a wild
place as this?"

"A woman's voice, I think."

"It cam frae the hill on the left o' the road,—I'm
sure o't.  Hech! it was an unco' cry."

"Follow me," said his master, beginning quickly
to ascend the hill.

"Hech, sir! dinna venture up the bank till we hear
something mair," said Evan cautiously, following
promptly nevertheless.  "My certie! we kenna
what folk may bide amang the holmes and howes
hereabout.  At hame I have heard tell o' sic cries
ringing at this time, between the nicht and morning,
and they were ay for ill, and never for gude.  Sae
be advised, sir, and wait awee."

"Evan!" said Stuart angrily, "are you afraid of men?"

"Ye ken I am no, sir!" replied the Highlandman
sharply.  "I would scorn to turn heel on sax o' the
best that ever trod on heather.  Mair would, may
be, be venturesome."

"Of bogles, then,—or spunkies, or what?"  The
soldier was silent.

"Campaigning might have taught you to laugh
at such ideas, Evan."

"Gang on, sir," replied the other sturdily; "if
auld Mahoud, wi' horns, hoof, and blazin' een sat
on the brae head, I'll follow ye; but auld Dugald
the cornel's man tauld me an unco' story ca'd the
*lham-dearg*, that gars me scunner at my ain
shadow after nicht-fa'."  Again the cry rang loud and
shrilly, and many others followed in succession.

"There is no mistake now," cried Ronald,
rushing up the hill towards a light, which was seen
twinkling through the darkness.  "It is the voice
of a woman,—and she cries for help."  Scrambling
forward, among rocks and stunted trees, a few
moments brought them in front of a hut of the rudest
and humblest construction.  The light shone through
the open hole which served for a window, and from
this structure the cries, which had now died away,
had certainly proceeded.  Before he entered, Ronald
reconnoitred the interior through the loop-hole.
Two shepherds, arrayed in the coarse clothing made
of the undyed wool of the mountain sheep, sat
smoking cigars and drinking at a rough wooden
table, while they coolly surveyed a very singular
scene.  A young and very handsome woman, a lady
evidently by her form and air, although her dress
was torn and soiled, her white silk bonnet hanging in
fritters, her hair dishevelled, and her feet almost bare,
struggling wildly with, and exerting every energy to
oppose, the brutality of—whom?  Cifuentes! the
diabolical Narvaez Cifuentes, who, like a bird of ill
omen, seemed doomed to cross the path of Ronald
Stuart wherever he went,—and even there, on the
borders of France.  He appeared the same ferocious
dog as ever, with his matted hair and scrub-beard;
but his aspect was now rendered hideous by a large
scar on the cheek and chin, caused probably by the
random shot which Lord Dalhousie had bestowed
upon him at Vittoria.  His musquet, sabre, and
pistols lay upon the table.  His stiletto he held to
the white neck of the sinking girl, and swore by
every saint in the calendar that he would plunge it
in her heart, if she did not cease her cries.
Overcome with terror and exhaustion, she sunk upon her
knees before him, when Evan, applying his foot to
the door, dashed it in, and Stuart, rushing forward,
grasped Narvaez by the throat, hurled him to the
earth before, in his own defence, he could strike a
blow with his weapon, which Evan wrested adroitly
from his hand, and saying, with a grin, that "it
wad mak' a brave skene-dhu for his faither the
piper," stuck it into his right garter.  Fiercely did
Cifuentes struggle with his athletic assailant, who,
although he planted a foot on his throat, delayed,
with a mistaken humanity, to bury his claymore in
his heart,—a display of mercy Ronald had reason
afterwards to repent most bitterly.

The two herds started to their feet on beholding
this unexpected conflict, and the lady, in the
extremity of her terror, flung her arms around Stuart,
and, grasping him convulsively, completely impeded
his motions.  Of this circumstance his adversary did
not fail to take the utmost advantage.  After several
fruitless efforts, he escaped from Ronald's powerful
grasp, and, eluding the bayonet of Evan, who charged
him breast-high, rushed from the cottage, and
disappeared in the darkness with the speed of a hare.
Ronald's fury was now turned against the villanous
shepherds, whom, in the extremity of his
anger, he threatened to put to death; upon which
they quitted their dwelling, and made a hasty retreat.
While Evan stood sentinel at the door, his master
endeavoured to calm and pacify the young lady,
whom he found to be French—very pretty, and very
attractive.  No sooner had her terror subsided, than
she returned him thanks and praises with such
volubility in French and English, that Ronald became
almost abashed, and with some reserve inquired
her name?

"The Baroness de Clappourknuis."

"Oh, indeed!  And how alone in such a place as this?"

"Ah! monsieur, you need scarcely ask.  When
the royal carriages were captured, on the road to
Bayonne, I was one of the few who effected an
escape from them.  Oh, pity me! *monsieur officier*,
and do not deliver me up to be sent a prisoner to
England."

"Madame, what would you have me to do?"

"Oh, any thing you please,—that is, monsieur,
conceal me but for a day or so.  General Gazan's
troops are not far off, and my husband the baron is
with them.  I may find means to rejoin him safely.  I
am sure you will not treat me cruelly—your look is
so gentle.  But we Frenchwomen have quite a
terrible idea of you British soldiers, and my fears have
carried me thus far from the fatal plains of Vittoria.
Ah! good sir, you may imagine, but I can never
describe the terrors, the miseries, the horror I have
undergone while wandering so great a distance,
alone and unprotected, among these barbarous
Spaniards.  And, *O mon Dieu!* when I had almost
gained the shelter of Gazan's lines, I fell into the
power of that fearful creature, from whose savage
treatment you have so bravely rescued me."

"Where did you meet with him, madame?"

"Wandering in the pass of Lanz,—for I was
compelled to seek the most unfrequented paths.
Clad in the habit of some of the *religieux* of this
country, he met me.  I had nothing to fear from
one who wore the garb of peace.  I confided in
him: he offered to become my guide, and led me
hither.  You know the rest.  Ah, monsieur! complete
your kindness, I beseech you, and see me in
safety to the French outposts!"

"What you ask of me, madame, I cannot perform,
and I say so with regret.  'Tis three miles from this
to the enemy's position.  I cannot escort you myself,
being on a particular duty, and I have not the means
of sending you thither; yet, believe me, for the sake
of poor D'Estouville's first love I would do much."

This was said in a tone of feeling, slightly mingled
with reproach, and the colour of the lady came
and went while she gazed on Ronald with a look of
considerable surprise.

"Monsieur," said she, after a pause, "did you
know Major d'Estouville?"

"Intimately, although a Frenchman and an
enemy.  I beheld him die."

"At Merida?"  Her lip quivered.

"Yes, madame."

"Poor Victor!" said the baroness thoughtfully.

"The last words he uttered were your name,—Diane
de Montmichel.  He expired in great agony,
on a bed of straw, stretched on the cold pavement
of an ancient chapel."

"*Merci*!  Ah, monsieur! do not, do not tell me
any more of this!" said she, covering her face with
her hands,—which, I may observe, were very small
and beautifully formed,—and beginning to weep and
sob.  "I dare not think of Victor now,—now when
the wedded wife of another!  To do so would be a
sin, even although he is dead."

"D'Estouville told me his story.  He loved you
very truly, madame."

"I know that.  You will certainly think me very
cruel in deserting him, but Heaven knows I did not
do so wilfully; I was not entirely to blame.  At
Lillebonne we understood that he had been killed;
and long I wept and sorrowed for him, and
protested that, until death, I would remain unwedded
for his sake.  Monsieur le Baron made proposals
for my hand, and it was given him by my parent
even before my consent was obtained.  Terror,
sorrow, and domestic persecution did the rest, and I
became the bride of the new suitor, who indeed
loves me very dearly, and I have every reason to be
grateful to him.  A coronet is a gay and attractive
thing; yet think not, monsieur, that I have forgotten
poor Victor, though I struggle with my heart
to teach it the duty it owes the baron.  One cannot
have two loves for one heart," she added, sobbing
and blushing.

"Well, madame," said Stuart, anxious to end her
embarrassment, "some arrangement must be made.
First, let us leave this place."

"*Eh bien!*" said the lady joyfully; and beginning
to bustle about, she put her dilapidated dress
in some order.  "But," added she, shrugging her
shoulders, "for where, monsieur?"

"With your permission, madame, to my picquet
at the foot of the hill, in the first place," replied
Stuart, consulting his watch.  "I have been absent
nearly an hour.  Hah! there will be the devil to
pay should I be missed."

"Ay will there, sir," said Evan, who had leaned
his chin upon the muzzle of his piece, and 'glowered'
with considerable surprise during the sudden and
animated conversation which his master had carried
on so glibly with the strange lady.  "I hae been
keepin' my lug to the wind, to hearken if ony soonds
cam up the brae, but there has been naething asteer
as yet.  Ye hae nae been missed; but, gude save
us, sir, let's awa before waur comes o't!  Fassifern
'the chief' himsel's on duty; and whan he gangs
the round, a bonnie kick up there will be gin ye're
no at your post; and ye ken the cornel is waur than
the deil to warsle wi'."  Stuart knew that this was
good and sound advice, however homely its delivery;
and he prepared to rejoin his picquet, before
Cameron, who was field-officer on duty, might
visit it.

By pinning up here and there, tucking up one
thing and letting out another, the lady wrought
away rapidly with her neat and nimble little hands,
working as only a Frenchwoman could have done,
and in three minutes, her travel-stained and
disordered attire was nicely and very passably arranged.
Ronald offered his assistance, but the lady dispensed
with it, thanking him with a smile, and saying he
"could not be a very adroit *femme de chambre*."  The
glossy locks were smoothly placed over her
white forehead, and the crushed bonnet had almost
resumed its true Parisian shape.  Its draggled
feathers were cast aside, but the rich white veil she
disposed gracefully over the front; and, looking at
Stuart with a glance of mingled archness, coquetry,
and timidity, observed that she was "attired
somewhat more *à la mode*," and took his proffered arm.

"Ah, monsieur!" said she, "once more I intreat
you, do not deliver me up as a prisoner to be sent to
England,—that horrid place!"

"Not if I can help it,—I pledge you my word of
honour.  In transferring you to the French lines, I
incur considerable risk; but as the distance is so
short, I will see if it can possibly be done before
day breaks."

He threw his ample cloak around her, and giving
strict injunctions to Evan not to acquaint his
comrades who the lady was, began to descend the hill
as quickly as the trembling steps of the latter would
permit along such a dark and rugged path.  Before
leaving the hut, Evan took care to break and destroy
all the offensive weapons it contained, saying as he
did so, "that fules and bairns shuldna hae chappin'
sticks."  He proposed to set the hut in a "bleeze,"
to light their way down the hill, but his master at
once objected.  The darkness renewed the terrors of
the young lady.

"Is the way long, monsieur?" asked she in a
faltering tone.

"O no,—quite near.  You see the picquet-fire
yonder.  Ah, madame! how fortunate I am in
having come so opportunely to your rescue."

"Oh!  I shall never forget you in my
prayers,—never, monsieur."

"But why are you trembling so much?  Surely
you are not afraid of me?"

"O no! your behaviour is too cavalier-like and
gentle for that; and we have become quite like very
old friends in half-an-hour's time."

"Do you fear the darkness, then?"

"*Mon dieu*!  Ah! the darkness is nothing new
to me.  Alas!" replied she, shrugging her shoulders,
"since the field of Vittoria I have passed every
night in dark and lonely places; and I wonder now
how one so timid, and so delicately nurtured has not
sunk under all the fears and privations I have
undergone for some days and nights past."  The lady
started.  At that moment the voice of a sentinel was
heard to give the usual challenge.

"Who comes, there?"

"Rounds!" answered the bold voice of Fassifern,
and the tramp of his horse's hoofs rang on the
roadway between the mountains.

"Stand, rounds!" replied the sentry, porting his
musquet, and so on; with the usual ceremony, the
parole and countersign were given and received.

"Excuse me, madame, but for a minute," said
Stuart.  "I am just in time; an instant later, and I
should have been missed."  Leaving the side of the
trembling lady he bustled about, and got his picquet
under arms.

On the departure of Fassifern, whose movements
the baroness had watched with no ordinary feelings
of caution and fear, Evan was despatched for
Macdonald, whom he found enjoying himself with some
other officers at a wine-house in Elizondo.  He
came promptly enough, and was not a little
surprised when Ronald requested as a favour, that he
would escort a young lady to within sight of the
French lines, explaining at the same time, in as few
words as possible, her story and the nature of her
situation.

Alister at once accepted the honour of being her
convoy.  "But," said he, looking into the gloom
which surrounded them, "the route is confoundedly
dreary across the mountains to the rock of
Maya,—Gazan's post."

"I am perfectly aware of it," replied Stuart, with
an air of pique.  "'Tis impossible the baroness can
go alone, and gallantry requires us to set Wellington's
orders at defiance for once, and not deliver her
up.  I would have escorted her myself, but cannot
leave my picquet."

"Monsieur," said the baroness, "I am indeed
sorry to trouble you; but surely you do not
complain of the duty—"

"Oh, no! impossible, madame," exclaimed Alister,
the blood mounting to his handsome features
at the idea, while, gracefully raising his bonnet, he
observed her fair face by the red light of the fire.
"But will you entrust yourself to the guidance of
one who is entirely a stranger, through a road so
dark and dangerous?"

"I have no alternative, alas!" said she, bending
her bright eyes into the gloom, as if she strove to
pierce the depths beyond.  She shuddered.  "'Tis
very dark, indeed, messieurs.  I have no alternative
but to go, or to remain and be sent a captive to
Britain.  Monsieur, I will go with you.  I will depend
on the untarnished honour of a British officer, that I
shall be conveyed in safety to Gazan's sentinels at
the rock of Maya."

"Madame, you do me an honour never to be
forgotten," answered Macdonald, with a bow profound
enough for any "puffing señor" of Old Castile,
while the lady took his arm.

"Lend me your dirk, Stuart.  I left mine at the
wine *caza*," said Alister, adjusting his belt and
putting his basket-hilt free of plaid, sash, tassels, &c.
"It is as well to be prepared for any sudden attack,
and the baroness must be my warrant that I am not
made a prisoner of by some of Gazan's scouts or
sharp-shooters.  So then, good-by, Stuart; I will
come brattling up the brae in an hour or so."

The lady kissed her hand to Stuart and departed
with Macdonald, feeling a confidence and assurance
of safety which probably no British lady would have
felt, if entrusted to the charge of a foreigner under
the same peculiar circumstances.

"And this is Diane de Montmichel, the false love
of poor Victor d'Estouville," thought Ronald, as her
light figure disappeared in the darkness.  "Well,
I believe, if all the tales his friend De Mesmai told
me were true, one cannot look for much faith in
French women!"

For Macdonald's return he waited with considerable
anxiety, which increased when the time by
which he expected him passed away without his
appearing, and day began to dawn on the Maya
heights.  He could not help dreading that Alister
had not been wary enough, and had been captured
by the French advanced sentinels.  If so, the escape
of the baroness would come to light, and he feared
the Marquess of Wellington would make a deuced
unpleasant row about it.  He also remembered
Narvaez Cifuentes, whom for some time he had forgotten,
and supposed that his friend might have fatally
encountered this savage bandit and some of his
companions.

The morning had now dawned, but the valleys
between Elizondo and the rock of Maya, and even
the summits of the Lower Pyrenees, were still
almost involved in darkness.  Shaking the dew from
their booming wings, the eagles were soaring through
the blue sky from their eyries among the cliffs, and
the morning breeze, as it swept along the mountain
sides, bore with it the delightful perfume of the
aromatic plants and little shrubs which flourish so
plentifully in all waste places throughout Spain.
From the dying embers of the picquet-fire a puff of
smoke curled now and then on the pure air, but
scarcely a sound woke the echoes of the place, save
the proud and steady tread of the sentries as they
strode to and fro on their posts.

Beyond the advanced chain of the latter, Ronald
wandered far in search of Macdonald, and to await
his return seated himself upon a fragment of rock,
and watched attentively the long valley which lay
between him and the Lower or French Pyrenees,
varying this employment, by holloaing to the eagles
as he used to do at home, or by hurling stones at
the glossy black ravens as they screamed aloud,
flapped their wings, and from the rocks of the
surrounding wilderness stared at him as an intruder
upon their solitude.  The voice of some one
singing a Gaelic song,—

   |  "*Cha teid mis a chaoidh*,"[\*]

caused him to spring to his feet.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] I will never go with him.

.. vspace:: 2

"Holloa, Alister!  Is that you, my man?"

"Yes," replied Macdonald, springing up the rocks
to where Ronald sat, and leaping to his side with
the activity of a deer; "but you nearly made an
end of me a dozen times.  Every minute you sent a
large rock sousing down the ravine upon my very
path.  Did you not hear me shout?  Why, man, you
have but half the ear of a Highland forester!  I hope
I am in time for the marquess's arrival?"

"Yes; but what a devilish long time you have
been!  Madame the baroness and her squire were
certainly in no hurry to reach the rock of Maya."

"Why no; to tell you the truth," replied
Macdonald, laughing as heartily as his lack of breath
would permit him, "we consulted our own convenience
and pleasure, and it has been the most agreeable
night, or rather morning, march since I first
saw the spires of Lisbon."

"So I suppose.  But did you escape the French
sentries?"

"How would I have been here else, Ronald?
They are posted at the foot of the rock of Maya, and
must have been blind, if they did not see me.  I led
the young lady within a hundred yards of them, and
there bade her tenderly adieu."

"She thanked you, of course?"

"By so delightful a salute, that I began to
persuade her to return with me; but she placed her
little hand upon my mouth, and, as the novels say,
vanished from my sight,—in other words crossed
the enemy's lines: so now, I suppose, she is in the
arms of monsieur the baron, or as he would be more
appropriately styled, Jock Law, laird of the
Clapperknowes.  What a pity 'tis that so sweet a girl
should be the wife of that gruff old humbug!
Hah! there go the pipes!"

"Wellington has come!"

The out-picquets rejoined their several brigades,
which in a few minutes were in motion, and marched
from Elizondo with their bands playing, and entered
among the mountains towards that part of Maya
where General Gazan's corps were in position.  In
the forenoon they came in sight of the enemy, when
Sir Rowland Hill halted, and Wellington, attended
by a single aide-de-camp, rode forward to reconnoitre.
Ronald Stuart had now for the first time
an opportunity of particularly observing that great
leader, of whom the world then heard, and were yet
to hear, so much.

He was mounted on a slight but stout crop-tailed
horse, without trappings; a pair of plain holsters were
at his saddle-bow, and a short sabre hung from his
belt.  The exceeding plainness of his attire—a coarse
blue cloak, and weather-beaten cocked-hat, totally
destitute of ornament—contrasted strongly with the
richly laced jacket and pelisse of his aide, an officer
of the 10th Hussars, that regiment of exquisite
celebrity.  Wellington gave a keen but hasty glance
along the ranks of the bronzed Highlanders as he
rode past, and then bent his sharp eyes on the
heights where the dark columns of French infantry
appeared in position, their long lines of serried arms
glancing as usual in the sun.  For about three
minutes the marquess carefully made a reconnoissance
of the foe through his telescope, and then issued
his orders.

"Sir William!" said he.

General Stuart, a fine old soldier, with hair white
as snow, a bronzed visage, and a purple coat
adorned with a black aigulet, rode up, and touched his
coarse cocked-hat of glazed leather.

"With the second brigade you will cross the
Bidassoa, by the pathway leading from Elizondo,
and ascending the mountains, turn the enemy's right.
You will carry the rock of Maya at the point of the
bayonet."

"It shall be done, my lord," replied Stuart confidently,
as he drove spurs into his horse and galloped
back to the second brigade; while Sir Rowland with
the marquess ascended to an eminence, to observe the
operations and success of this movement.  While
Stuart with his troops moved off and disappeared
among the rocks and orchards of Elizondo, the other
brigades remained under arms, and found, with
considerable chagrin, that their part of the game was
not yet come.  After remaining for some time—an
hour perhaps, watching attentively the French lines,
the sound of distant firing, and the appearance of
smoke curling along the hill sides, announced that
the gallant Stuart had commenced the attack.
Every ear and every eye were all attention.  The
fire became closer and more rapid; a cheer was
heard, and in ten minutes the whole second
brigade, consisting of the brave "Old Buffs," the 31st,
the 57th, and 66th English regiments, were seen
rushing up the hill under a close and destructive
shower of shot, which they heeded less than if it had
been a shower of rain, although it thinned their
numbers deplorably.  Forward they went with the
bayonet, and the right wing of the French melted
away before them.

The position was turned, and the cheers of the
victors were echoed by their comrades below, whose
blood was fiercely roused by the sound of the
conflict.

"They have done well," said Wellington.
"Forward! the light troops."

The command was obeyed with promptitude.  The
6th Caçadores, the 71st Highlanders, and all the
light companies moved off double quick, and the
ravines among the hills rang with the clank of
accoutrements and the tramp of their feet.  These
auxiliaries scrambled directly up the face of the hill,
and the 50th regiment, moving to the front, opened
a deadly fire on Gazan's left, while his troops were
making ineffectual attempts to recover the heights
on their right.

Exposed thus to a fire on their flanks, and galled
in front by a cloud of sharp-shooters, who were
scattered among the rocks and bushes,—bolting up
every instant to fire, and then ducking down to
reload, the French began to retreat down the hills
towards France, but slowly, and keeping up their
fire with gallant yet singular determination.

The coolness displayed by the light infantry in
this skirmish was truly astonishing.  To them it
appeared like ordinary shooting,—a mere
amusement.  The Highlanders and the caçadores were
seen scampering hither and thither, leaping from
rock to rock, firing and kneeling, or throwing
themselves flat on the earth, laughing and jesting in a
manner, which none but those that have been
eye-witnesses of such an affair can imagine.  Even the
deep groan, the sudden shriek of anguish, as some
comrade when struck by a French bullet tossed
aside his musquet and heavily fell prone on the earth,
wallowing in his blood, did not cool or restrain
them; and thus they continued to advance for
several miles, strewing the ground with dead, and
peppering the retiring foe from every available point.

Gazan threw out a body of chasseurs to cover the
retreat of his forces down the mountains, and with
them an irregular fight was maintained the whole
day.  Night scarcely put an end to the contest, and
allowed the jaded French to find a shelter in their
own country.  The night was excessively dark, and
yet the firing continued for nearly two hours after
the gloom had fairly set in, and only ceased when
friends became confounded with foes.  Seaton
narrowly escaped being bayoneted by two of his own
favourite light-bobs.  Several of the French went
the wrong way in the dark, and, falling among the
British, were captured and sent to the rear.  The
effect of the midnight firing was peculiarly fine, in
such a wide wilderness as the Pyrenees.  Several
thousand musquets flashing incessantly through the
gloom, and wakening the myriad echoes of the
mountains and gorges, presented a very singular
sight, the pleasure of viewing which was considerably
lessened by the continual whistling of shot;
until the bugles on both sides called in the
stragglers, and the British, giving one hearty cheer of
triumph and defiance, withdrew to their main body.

The lines of the latter were now established along
the heights of Maya.  The whole of the mountains
were enveloped in a dense fog; a tremendous storm
of rain succeeded, but the troops, the unhappy
out-picquets excepted, were snug under canvas.  But
there were exposed the hundreds of killed and
wounded, who could neither be sought nor attended
to then, and who lay scattered over miles of
contested ground, under all the fury of the pitiless
elements.  For the dead it mattered not; but many
of the wounded expired during the raging of the
storm, which accelerated their end.

Seated in his tent, on the sloping sides of which
the rain was rushing down, Stuart wrote letters for
Inchavon-house and Lochisla.  He found their
composition no easy task, as the candle, which was stuck
in a bottle, flickered in the wind, and sputtered with
the rain-drops which oozed through the canvas
sides of his bell-shaped covering.  He held out
hopes of his speedy return,—but he had often done
so before; for every new victory was deemed by the
troops a precursor of peace, and of return to their
native homes. \* \* \* \*

Having now gained the important heights of
Maya, Lord Wellington retired to join another part
of his army.  The celebrated pass was left to the
care of Fassifern with the first brigade, which
encamped on the very summit of the hills, where the
high road from the fertile vale of El Bastan descends
to France.

The second brigade was posted in a valley to the
right, and the Portuguese of the Condé d'Amarante
occupied a mountain in front of the hamlet of
Erraza, where a brigade of the same nation was
quartered, under the command of Colonel Ashworth.
The 82nd (Prince of Wales's Volunteers) occupied
another part of the hills, about two miles off; and to
these troops was left the defence of the pass of
Maya, for which they were to fight to the last
gasp,—orders which, when the time came, were faithfully
and nobly performed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PASS OF MAYA.—PYRENEES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   PASS OF MAYA.—PYRENEES.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Again the kelpie nichered loud,
   |    And gloated o'er his prey;
   |  And the victims in the mountain pass,
   |    Like tigers, stood at bay;
   |
   |  The first fire thinned the Scottish ranks—
   |    Childe Sinclair hit the ground,
   |  And as his life-blood oozed away,
   |    He moaned—"
   |                    *Massacre of Kringellan*:—Vedder.

.. vspace:: 2

A month elapsed without the sound of a shot
being heard, and the troops at the passes of Maya
and Roncesvalles lay quietly encamped and
unmolested amidst the fine scenery of the Pyrenees.
The weather was now remarkably agreeable, and the
officers procured plenty of wine from Elizondo and
other Navarese towns in their rear, and they were
beginning to be as comfortable as it is possible for
troops to be under canvas.  But a cloud was
gathering in the valleys of Gascony below them.

The great victory at Vittoria, and the important
events which followed it, had not failed deeply to
interest and concern Napoleon, to rouse his wrath
and to wound his pride.  That object, for which he
had shed so much French blood, was now completely
wrested from his grasp, and France herself remained
in imminent peril while the armies of the conqueror
hovered on the mountains which overlooked her
territories.  Fresh conscriptions were levied, and
again France, in her folly, poured forth another army,
which directed its march to the Pyrenees, to fight
the battles of the insatiable Buonaparte.  Soult was
recalled from Germany to place himself at its head,
as the "Lieutenant of the Emperor."  Joining the
French army on the 13th of July, 1813, he
commenced re-organizing and preparing for a second
invasion of Spain, with an energy and activity which
restored the confidence and roused, as usual, the
arrogance of the French troops, who commenced
their march with the intention of driving the allies
beyond the Ebro, and celebrating the birth-day of
the great Emperor at Vittoria.

At that time Lord Wellington's responsibilities
and difficulties were not of a slight nature, having
to cover the siege of two strong fortresses and
defend the wide space between them, which
compelled him to extend and weaken his line.  His skill
was evinced in the distribution of his army, which
he posted in the best manner likely to defend
effectually the passes of the Pyrenees, and to cover
the investments of San Sebastian and Pampeluna.

To effect the relief of the latter was the first grand
object of the Duke of Dalmatia.  From St. Jean
Pied-de-Port, on the morning of Sunday the 25th
July, he marched thirty-five thousand men against
the troops of General Byng occupying the pass of
Roncesvalles, which post they completely turned in
the afternoon, after a most desperate conflict, from
which the general and Sir Lowry Cole, who had
moved up to his support, were compelled to retire.

On the same day General Drouet led thirteen
thousand men against the right of Hill's
position,—Cameron's command at the Maya pass, which
he had orders to force, as the Highlander had to
defend it,—*at all hazards*.  At the time the attack
was made no movement was expected, yet Drouet
found the British not altogether unprepared for such
an event.  It was a beautiful Sunday, and the heat,
even on the summits of the Pyrenees, was intense.
As it was not supposed that the enemy were near,
the tents were all standing, just as they had been
for a month before; and the camp and baggage-mules
were miles away down on the Spanish side,
whither they were usually taken for grass.

Stuart on that morning had wandered from the
encampment to some distance, where he was enjoying
the appearance of solitude, so like that of his
"Highland home," which reigned far and wide
around him.  The vast hills rose on every side,
heaving their green summits to the sky.  A death-like
stillness prevailed, save when now and then
broken by the scream of a wild bird, the hollow
flap of a partridge's wing, or the faint and far-off
tinkle of a mountain rill murmuring through some
solitary gorge, leaping from rock to rock as it
descended to the bright plains of Gascony or Bearn.
For nearly an hour he had wandered about there,
when his solitary reveries were broken by the sound
of a distant shot, the echoes of which rang among
the splintered rocks and grassy peaks, recalling him
at once to the present; and he hurried away to the
camp, where the brigade was getting under arms,
the soldiers mustering with their usual rapidity and
coolness, without betraying the least surprise or
confusion.  From an out-picquet the word had been
passed that the French "were in motion in front,"
and the fixing of fresh flints, snapping of locks,
unrolling and examining of ammunition, gave token of
every preparation being made to receive them with
all due honour.  Nearly an hour elapsed, and no
more was seen or heard of the foe.  All began to
suppose it a false alarm, and many of the officers
went forward to the outposts to reconnoitre.

"Where are the enemy now, Armstrong?" asked
Cameron of an officer of the 71st, commanding the
picquet which had given the alarm.  "In which
direction did you see them?"

"Directly north, and far down on the French
side," replied the other, pointing with his sword.
"We distinctly saw a strong party pass yon defile
between the mountains: the glitter of their arms
was apparent to us all."

"I'm afraid their feet were cloven," observed
Seaton.  "I see nothing but a herd of cattle
crossing the defile you speak of."

"Horned nowte, just black short-legged Argyleshires,"
said Dugald, who, as usual, was close to
Cameron's skirts.  "I see them plain aneuch mysel,
sirs; but the loons may be amang the hills for a'
that."  A loud laugh arose at the old man's
observations.

"Well, gentlemen," said Armstrong, while his
cheek reddened with anger, and he cast a furious
glance on Dugald Mhor, "you are all at liberty
to think as you please; but I tell you that there are
cattle among the hills carrying bayonets on their
horns, and that such is the fact, some here may
learn to their cost, ere long."

"What fire the borderer displays," said Ronald,
as Armstrong left the group abruptly; "and here
is Alister his sub, quite fierce likewise about the
matter."

"Search round," chimed in Campbell, in the
same tone of jest; "search about, and probably we
shall find the pig-skin at the bottom of which they
saw the enemy.  I remember once in Egypt, that
old Ludovick Lisle—"

"What mean you, gentlemen?" said Macdonald,
angrily; "do you take us for fools?  I believe we
have seen the enemy often enough to know them."

"Halt, Macdonald; you take our jests far too
seriously," said Stuart.  "If you saw the French,
where are they now?"

"In front!" was the tart reply.

"They have been so, down in Gascony, for this
month past."

"By all eternity! 'tis something new for me to
have assertions doubted thus," replied Macdonald,
considerably ruffled, yet loath to have high words
with his old friend; and adding, "I will make no
further explanations," he turned and left them,
following Armstrong, who was reconnoitring intently
through a telescope.  While Stuart's cheek grew red
with anger at the contemptuous manner in which
Macdonald took leave of him, his sleeve was
plucked by old Dugald Cameron.

"Dinna speak to him juist the noo," whispered
that aged retainer solemnly; "his birse is up, and
it is an ill thing to warsle wi' a Macdonald at sic a
time.  Dinna gloom wi' het faces at ane anither, for
I tell you one will no behauld the ither lang, sae
turn not the back o' your hand upon him; he may
be mixed wi' the mools ere the hills grow dark wi'
the gloaming, or redden again in the morning sun."

"What do you mean, Dugald?" asked Stuart,
surprised at the Highlander's manner.

"Sir, I am farer seen than maist folk, and so was
my faither before me.  Baith loud and lang did you
and Macdonald laugh ower your wine in the cornel's
tent last nicht, and every laugh o the puir lad
gaed to my heart.  I kent by its hollow ringing
he was *fey*."

"Fey?" replied the other, respect for Dugald's
white haffets, alone restraining a violent inclination
to laugh; "fey, Dugald?  How?"

"Loud laughter, I mean laughter such as his,
aye portends sudden death.  Ony cailloch that ever
wore a mutch, or ony giglet o' a lassie that ever
wore a snood, will tell ye the same thing, sir.  Sae
dinna girn at or be thrawn gebbit wi' young
Inchkenneth, for he'll no be lang amang us.  Mony heads
will there be on the heather ere the sun gaes
doon."  Dugald moved off, leaving Stuart considerably
surprised at his superstition.  At that moment Alister
rushed towards them, with his bonnet in his hand.

"Look ye now, gentlemen," he exclaimed, tossing
his long feathers in the direction of the winding
way which led to France, "what call you these?"

Even while he spoke a dense column of French
infantry appeared in the defile between the mountains,
and a cloud of others, battalion after battalion,
with their tri-colours fluttering in the breeze,
advanced in succession, until thirteen thousand
bayonets were gleaming in the light of the noonday
sun.  It was the whole of General Drouet's division.

"There is nae heather here, but I thocht and I
said there would be mony a head on the green
swaird ere the hills grew mirk in the gloaming,"
muttered Dugald ominously, as he viewed the
advance of the French with kindling eyes.  With the
first blast of the bugle the troops were again under
arms, and marched to the front of the pass to stem
the approaching torrent; and, resolute as the soldiers
were, they knew that the attempt to keep their
position against such an overwhelming power was vain,
unless Lord Wellington, who was distant at San
Sebastian, could by some means succour them.  But
obedience is the *first* duty of the soldier, and their
orders were to defend the passes and fight to the
last,—orders never yet mistaken by British troops.

The out-picquets first opened their fire upon the
advancing masses, and although seconded by a body
of light troops, were forced of course to give way.
The 28th and 39th regiments, from Wilson's
brigade, moved off to support the picquets on the
right.  With courage and resolution unparalleled
these corps sustained the onset of their opponents,
whose tremendous fire however compelled them to
waver and recoil.  The 34th or Cumberland regiment,
with the 50th, came to their assistance.  These
last, forming a junction, rushed upon the French
while exposed to the deadly fire of their extended
front, and with unexampled intrepidity charged
them with the bayonet, giving a check to their
progress up the mountains.  The French returned the
charge, but at the same time made a flank
movement, which their great numbers enabled them to
do easily, to surround and cut off their rash assailants,
who were at once placed in a critical position.

It was at that moment that Cameron brought up
his Highlanders, and restored confidence to the
regiments which had been falling into confusion.  It is
impossible to describe the scene which the Maya
heights presented at that time.  The deafening roar
of the musquetry,—the driving clouds of smoke,—the
tumultuous yells of the French, who were fierce,
wild, and eager to wash away in British blood the
disgraces of Vittoria, almost confounded those who
were then for the first time under fire.  The
advancing enemy continued to shout more like savages
than European soldiers, but their tremendous shower
of shot was fast mowing down the little band
which so gallantly endeavoured to resist them.
Like a hail-shower the heavy leaden bullets were
falling everywhere, and tearing up the turf even
after they had passed through the bodies of the
soldiers,—so close had the contending parties now
come together.

The British had stood firm without flinching an
inch; but the French, who were now fighting in a
great disorganized mob, had continued to advance,
by the rear men pushing on the *front*, until within
thirty paces of the British line; and at so short a
distance it may easily be supposed that the shot on
both sides told with fearful effect, especially among
the dense masses of the French, before whom, in five
minutes, arose a pile of their own dead and wounded
like a breast-work.  Beyond this ghastly line they
would not advance an inch, nor could they be
prevailed upon to do so even by the most strenuous
exertions of their officers, who, whenever the smoke
cleared away a little, were observed brandishing their
sabres, waving their colours and eagles, and
enthusiastically crying, "*Vive la France!  Vive
l'Empereur!  Vive la Gloire!*"  But their soldiers heeded
them not, and continued to load and fire with the
utmost *sang froid*, but would not be led to the
charge.

The brave 71st Highland Light Infantry, after
fighting with their usual obstinacy and intrepidity,
had been compelled to give way, by which three
Portuguese pieces of cannon fell into the possession
of the French.  To recapture these, a desperate
attempt was made by Lieutenant Armstrong, who, at
the head of eight private soldiers, as brave and as
rash as himself, rushed furiously on the enemy.
With his sword in one hand and his bonnet in
the other, the gallant Borderer was seen amidst
the smoke leading them on; but all perished under
the leaden shower, within a few feet of the French
bayonets.  After being reduced to half its number
of officers and men, this fine regiment began to
retire in disorder.  The 34th and 50th were in the
same perilous predicament, owing to the front and
flank movements of the enemy, when Fassifern with
his Highlanders entered the bloody arena.  As the
battalion moved in open column of companies, along
the hill-top from the camp towards the pass,
Cameron addressed a few words to them, exhorting them
to fight to the last man, and maintain the ancient
fame of the north.  He reminded them that they
were not fighting merely for the defence of Spain,
but of those homes where their kindred dwelt.  His
voice became drowned in the din of the conflict
which rolled along the face of the hills, and Stuart
heard only the concluding part of his address, and
part of it was in Gaelic.  "Highlanders! we shall
have a bloody sabbath here to-day; but we go forth
to shed our blood that the sabbath-bells may ring
in peace at home, in those green straths and
wooded glens where many a Scottish heart is praying for
us at this hour."  The sound of the pipes, as the
piper on the flank of each company struck up "*On
wi' the Tartan*," was the only reply.  What a gush
of indescribable feeling came through every breast,
when the blast of the pipe was heard at such a
moment!  Every eye lighted up, and every cheek
flushed: the effect of the sound of that strange
instrument on the sons of Caledonia is well known.

"In halls of joy and in scenes of mourning it has
prevailed,—it has animated her warriors in battle,
and welcomed them back after their toils to the
homes of their love and the hills of their nativity.
Its strains were the first sounded in the ears of
infancy, and they are the last to be forgotten in the
wanderings of age.  Even Highlanders will allow
that it is not the gentlest of instruments; but when
far from their mountain-homes, what sounds, however
melodious, could thrill their hearts like one
burst of their own wild native pipe?  The feelings
which other instruments awaken are general and
undefined, because they talk alike to Frenchmen,
Spaniards, Germans, and Highlanders, for they are
common to all; but the bag-pipe is sacred to
Scotland, and speaks a language which Scotsmen only
feel.  It talks to them of home and all *the past*, and
brings before them, on the burning shores of India,
the wild hills and oft-frequented streams of
Caledonia,—the friends that are thinking of them, and
the sweethearts and wives that are weeping for
them there.  And need it be told here to how
many fields of danger and victory its proud strains
have led?  There is not a battle that is honourable
to Britain in which its war-blast has not sounded;
when every other instrument has been hushed by
the confusion and carnage of the scene, it has been
borne into the thick of the battle, and far in the
advance its bleeding but devoted bearer, sinking to
the earth, has sounded at once encouragement to
his countrymen—and his own coronach!"[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Preface to Macdonald's "Ancient Martial Music of Scotland."

.. vspace:: 2

Ranald-dhu with his comrades strove to call up
the "fierce native daring" of the Highlanders, who
continued to move quickly forward.  The balls now
began to hiss and tear up the turf around them, now
and then striking down some poor fellow, who was
left rolling on the ground in agony.

"The battalion will form line on the grenadiers,"
cried Fassifem,—"double quick!"  The movement
was performed with the rapidity and precision of a
home-review.  As the covering-serjeant of the light
company took up the ground of alignement, holding
his long pike aloft, a shot struck him in the head,
passing through his right eye, and he fell dead.
The line formed across his body, and the word of
command from Seaton, "Light company;
halt,—front,—dress!" had scarcely been heard on the left,
before the orderly bugler, who stood by Cameron's
side, sounded to fire, and the hoarse braying
*piobrachd* now rang along the line.

The first volley of the Highlanders gave a
temporary check to the enemy, and enabled the 34th
and "old Half-hundred" to reform in order.  The
French line was now, as I have said, within thirty
paces, and every lineament and feature of their dark
and sallow faces could be distinctly seen at so short
a distance.  They were now in the midst of all the
uproar, the smoke, the blood, the danger, the
mingling of hideous groans and cries,—in short, the hell
upon earth of a hot engagement, in which both
parties became so heated by the slaughter around
them, that all the softer passions were forgotten,
and they longed, with a tiger-like feeling, to bury
their blades in each other's hearts.

Ronald felt his pulses thickening, the blood
tingling in his ears, for the sound of the musquetry
had deafened them to every thing else, and his heart
rebounded within his bosom until he could almost
hear it beat; but it was with feelings the reverse
of fear,—a wish to leap headlong among the enemy,
to cut them down with his sword as he would
whinbushes, and to revenge the slaughter the terrible
fire of so dense a column was making among his
gallant and devoted regiment.  So thick was the
smoke become, that he could scarcely see the third
file from him, and only at times it cleared up a little.
What was then revealed, served only to infuriate
him the more.  The Highlanders were lying in heaps
across and across each other,—piled up just as
they fell; while their comrades fought above them,
firing and reloading with all the rapidity in their
power, until struck by a shot, and down they fell
to perish unnoticed and unknown.  Almost every
shot killed; for the distance was short, and the
wounds were hideous and ghastly, the blood spouting
forth from the orifice as if through a syringe.

Now and then Ronald felt his heart momentarily
recoil within him when he beheld some poor soldier,
while in the full possession of life and energy, toss
aside his firelock, and fall suddenly backwards
across some heap of corpses—stricken dead.  But a
battle-field is no place for sympathy, and the feeling
lasted but for an instant.

"Shall we never get the word to charge?" cried
Seaton fiercely.  "O Stuart! this is indeed infernal
work,—to be mauled thus, and within a few feet of
their muzzles."

"A charge would be madness, and our utter
destruction.  A single regiment against thirteen
columns of Frenchmen—"

"We possess the pass, though.  Poor Macivar
is on the turf, and Macdonuil is shot through the
heart.  Hah! see to the left: the 50th are giving
way—God!  I am struck!"  He sunk to the earth,
with the blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils.
A shot had pierced his breast, beating in with it a
part of the silver breast-plate, and in great agony
he rolled over several times, grasping and tearing
the turf with fruitless efforts to regain his feet.

"Never mind me, light bobs, but stand by
Cameron to the last.  Hurrah!"  Convulsively he
strove to raise himself up; but another bullet passed
through his neck, and a deadly paleness overspread
his countenance.  He gave his claymore one last
flourish, he cast a glance of fury and despair
towards the enemy, and expired.  Scarcely a minute
had elapsed since he was struck, and now he was
dead!

"Poor Seaton!" muttered Ronald, and turned
away.  He had now the command of the light
company; the other lieutenant lay bleeding to
death a few yards off, and in the intervals of pain
crying fruitlessly for water.  One soldier, who had
been struck by a shot across the bridge of the nose,
became blind, and rushed frantickly among the enemy,
to perish under their bayonets.  Another, who had
his lower jaw carried off, presented a horrible
spectacle as he lay on the ground, vomiting up blood
through his open throat, and lolling out his exposed
and swollen tongue.[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] This man lived for many years afterwards, having the loss
supplied by a mask, through which soups were induced by a
pipe for his sustenance.  For pension he received the sum of
nine-pence per day.

.. vspace:: 2

"Ninety-second!  Prepare to charge!" cried
Cameron, animated to fury by this deadly slaughter
of his regiment.  "Gordon Highlanders! prepare to
charge," he repeated, as he galloped along the
broken line with eyes flashing fire, while he waved his
bonnet aloft.  "Close up,—keep together; shoulder
to shoulder, Highland men,—charge!"  Ronald alone
heard him, and repeated the rash order; but their
voices were unheard amidst the din of the conflict.
At that moment the smoke cleared a little away,
and in front Ronald perceived a French grenadier
sling his musquet, and advancing a few paces before
his friends, stoop down to rifle an officer of the 71st
regiment, who was lying dead between the lines.

"Iverach, mark that plundering rascal," said
Stuart; "aim steadily."

Evan fired and missed.

"That was not like a man from the braes of
Strathonan!" said his master angrily.  "Fire, Ian
Macdonald; you are one of the best shots in the
company."

"My father shot the *Damh mhor a Vonalia* toon in
Padenoch,[\*] and I was aye thouchten to pe a petterer
marksman than him," replied the young Highlander
coolly, as he levelled his piece and fired.  The
Frenchman fell forward, beat the earth with his
heels for a moment, and then lay motionless.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] A famous white stag, shot in Badenoch in 1807.  It was
believed by the Highlanders to be more than 200 years old.

.. vspace:: 2

"He's toon, sir: I have pitten a flea in his lug,"
replied the marksman, as he bit another cartridge.

For two hours this desperate and unequal conflict
was maintained.  The other regiments had given
way in disorder, and the Highlanders began to waver,
after the loss of their gallant colonel, who had
retired severely wounded.  Nearly all the officers were
dead or dying on the ground, while others were
endeavouring to find their way to some place where
they could get their wounds dressed.  Two alone
were left with the regiment,—Ronald and another
lieutenant, who, being senior, had the command, and
finding that the battalion was reduced to less than
a company, ordered it to retire towards the pass of
Maya, having lost in two hours five-and-twenty
officers, and three hundred rank and file.  The other
regiments were cut up in nearly the same manner,
but none had lost so many officers.  Stuart carried
the king's colour, and a serjeant the regimental—all
the ensigns being killed or wounded.  Poor Alister
Macdonald was left on the field among the former.
A shot had passed through his head, and he died
without a groan.  His friend Ronald was considerably
startled when he saw him lying dead.  The
prediction of Dugald Mhor flashed upon his mind,
and he looked round for that singular old
Highlander; but he was away with Fassifern, on the road
for the village of Irun.

The whole of the British forces were now in
retreat before the overwhelming power of the enemy,
column after column of whom continued to press
forward.  The defenders of the pass retired on
the rock of Maya, abandoning their camp and
baggage to the French.  On retreating through the
pass, Major Campbell, whose horse had been as
usual shot under him, and who had first left the
field owing to a severe wound, headed a few
Highlanders, who scrambled like squirrels up the face of
a precipitous crag, from the summit of which they
kept up a hot fire upon the French troops, not only
holding them decidedly in check and giving their
friends time to retire, but revenging the previous
slaughter in front of the pass.  Here it may be
worth mentioning that Major Campbell lost his
celebrated cudgel, which, in the enthusiasm of the
moment he sent flying among the foe, and unhorsed
a mounted officer.  He gave them also much
weightier proofs of his good-will.  Just as the flank
of a column of French grenadiers reached the base
of the crag occupied by the Highlanders, a
tremendous fragment of rock, urged forward by the
powerful hands of the major, came thundering down
among them,—rolling through the dense mass of
men with irresistible force and fury, making a
perfect but terrible lane, and doing as much mischief
as a dozen bomb-shells.  Every man below held his
breath for a moment, and then cries of rage and fury
burst from the whole division of Drouet; while the
Scots, pouring upon them a parting salute of shot
and stones, descended from the other side of the
rock, and rejoined their comrades in double-quick
time.  Under the orders of General Stuart the
whole retired to the rock of Maya, those in the rear
maintaining an irregular skirmish with the French;
who, on perceiving this rearward movement, filled
the air with cries of "Long live the great Emperor!
Long live beautiful France!" mingled with
shouts,—absolute yells of triumph and exultation.

Thoroughly enraged and disheartened, the British
continued to retire, yet anxiously expecting that
succours from Lord Wellington would arrive in time to
enable them to face about, and beat Soult before
nightfall.  As the little band of Highlanders
descended straggling from the hills, Stuart saw a lady
(the wife of an officer of the 50th) on horseback,
and in a miserable situation.  Her horse had stuck
fast above the saddle-girths in a deep morass, and
she was too much terrified and bewildered to leave
it.  The balls of the sharp-shooters were whistling
past her every second, and she cried imploringly on
the retreating Highlanders to yield her some
assistance; but it was impossible, and she fell into the
hands of the French.  Her husband was lying dead,
with his sword in his hand, in the gorge of the fatal
pass.  On the brigade of Sir Edward Barnes coming
up from the rear, a new and sanguinary conflict took
place; but the enemy were defeated, and the pass
regained.

That night the shattered remains of the Gordon
Highlanders bivouacked near Barrueta.  The
consternation of the inhabitants in the mountain
villages, when the heights were abandoned and the
French again advancing, cannot be easily described.
From Barrueta, Elizondo, Maya, and Huarte, men,
women, and children were seen pouring forth during
the night and descending the mountain paths by
torch-light, bearing along, with infinite toil, their
sick and infirm relatives, their bedding, furniture,
&c., to save them from the remorseless invaders,
who, they too well knew would give all to the flames
that was "too hot or too heavy" to carry off.

So eager were the French soldiers for plunder,
that their searches were conducted upon a regular
system.  When a town was entered, every piece of
furniture was broken, every plank raised to see
whether any thing was hidden or buried, and the
hammer and small saw, carried by every man in his
havresack, assisted greatly this unsoldier-like work.
It is said, that in Germany the vaults of the
churches, the very graves in the church-yards were
searched; and the brutality with which they treated
those unfortunate Spaniards, male and female, who
fell into their power, cannot be described.
Therefore it is not be wondered at that the Pyrenean
mountaineers fled at their approach, as from a
legion of devils.

The roads were likewise crowded with wounded
officers and soldiers, pouring down from the passes
of Maya and Roncesvalles.  Those who were able
to move, were ordered to retire to Vittoria, which
had already been converted into a vast hospital, and
crowded to excess with the wounded of the great
battle; and the miseries these unfortunates
suffered, travelling without baggage or money in a
strange country, weary, sick, and wounded, for a
distance of one hundred miles during a hot season,
are utterly inconceivable.  Many wounds mortified,
and became incurable; hundreds of men perished by
the way-side of starvation and loss of blood, or
reached Vittoria only to expire in the streets.  Every
medical officer had from ninety to a hundred patients
on his list, and many lives were lost from the
want of proper attendance.

The astounding intelligence that the Duke of
Dalmatia had forced the Pyrenean passes, reached Lord
Wellington at night, and promptly as usual he took
means to concentrate his army, providing at the
same time for the siege of San Sebastian, and the
blockade of Pampeluna.  The right wing was in full
retreat from the mountains when he directed it to
halt, and soon arrived himself to direct measures
for covering Pampeluna, within a few miles of which
Soult, eager for its relief, had now arrived.  The
discomfited troops from Maya were ordered to march
on the position before Pampeluna, and moved
accordingly from Barrueta on Tuesday the 27th.  A
melancholy spectacle the parade of the Gordon
Highlanders presented on that morning!  The
colours, which had been shot almost to rags, were
cased, and carried by non-commissioned officers; two
young lieutenants had the command, and as the
solitary piper, Ranald Macdonuildhu, blew the
'gathering,' he watched with a stern and louring
visage the few survivors of the late conflict, as
they paraded on the hill-side, falling one by one
into their places.  Here were five men of the
grenadiers, twenty men of another company, ten of a
third, two of a fourth, and many others were totally
annihilated, neither officer nor private being present.
The Serjeant-major, with his arm in a sling, presented
a list of the casualties to Lieutenant Logan, who
commanded,—Logan of that Ilk, as he was named
by the mess.

"Where is Captain Mac Ivor?"

"Killed, sir.  I saw him lying dead, close by
Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Macdonald."

"Where is Captain Bevan?"

"He retired, sir, with his arm shattered near the
elbow, and expired at the moment Dr. Stuart attempted
to remove the limb at the shoulder-socket."

"Where is Gordon?"

"Severely wounded, and gone to the rear."

"Grant?"

"Shot through the side."

"Macpherson and Macdonald,—Ranald Macdonuil,
I mean?"

"Missing, sir."  And so on—killed, wounded,
and missing, was the answer to every question.

"God help us, sir!" said the worthy non-commissioned
officer, as he raised his hand to his bonnet
and turned away with a glistening eye, "but it's a
heart-breaking thing to see the regiment cut up in
this way."

The band was annihilated, and with a single drum
and bagpipe the little party moved off, just as the
morning sun rose above that deadly pass, where so
many a gallant heart had grown cold, and ceased
to beat for ever.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BLOCK-HOUSE.  MINA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE BLOCK-HOUSE.  MINA.

.. vspace:: 2

Hill's division from the Pyrenees arrived at
Pampeluna in time to share the fighting which ensued
when Soult endeavoured to dislodge the allies on
the 28th, but was repulsed with immense loss.
Along the heights of Huarte the contest was very
severe, and the bravery of the British was equalled
only by that of their enemies.  Every regiment
charged with the bayonet; and the Highlanders,—ever
at home at close quarters, more than once.
Both armies remained quiet during the 29th; but
Wellington, having completed all his arrangements,
attacked the left and centre of Soult's forces next
morning, and defeated them with great slaughter.
Upon this discomfiture, the marshal's only object
was to secure a safe retreat into France.  After a
fruitless attempt to turn Sir Rowland Hill's position
at La Zarza, and fighting until compelled to cease
firing by night coming on, they abandoned their
ground under the favouring shadow of the darkness,
and on the morrow were discovered in full retreat for
France by the pass of Donna Maria.  The allies
"followed them up" in hot pursuit, fighting and
capturing at every yard of the way, and on the 1st
of August again took possession of those hard-contested
passes, while the French retired into their
own country completely thrashed, but certainly not
to their hearts' content.  With the exception of a
slight bayonet-wound in a charge at La Zarza,
Ronald Stuart had escaped with a whole skin
during all these hard conflicts, known generally as
the battles of the Pyrenees.  But how much the
regiment had suffered may be inferred from the fact,
that of the thousand men who had landed in Spain
under its colours, about eighty only were in the
ranks.

The aspect of the passes of Maya and Roncesvalles,
when re-occupied, was at once revolting
and humiliating.  The corses of friends and foes lay
yet unburied there; but the death-hunters, the
guerillas, and those ferocious banditti who infested
every part of Spain, had been there at work; and
most of the bodies were lying naked as when they
came into the world.  Ronald found Captain Mac
Ivor in this condition, with his broad-sword so glued
and encrusted with gore to his stiffened fingers, that
it could not be removed, and so was buried with
him.  For many days the soldiers were busied in
burying the dead.  Deep holes were dug, wherein
friends and foes were interred together,—thrown in
just as they were found; and when the pit was
brim full, the earth was heaped over it.  These
mounds of death,—fragments of uniform, tatters of
tartan and plumage, shakoes and grenadier-caps,
scattered about in thousands where the troops were
encamped, served very disagreeably to remind them
of what might be their own fate on some future
day.  With the exception of his sash and epaulets,
ring and watch, &c., the body of poor Alister lay
untouched, and Stuart was deeply moved, at least
as much as a hard-hearted campaigner could well
be, at the sight of his once merry and brave young
comrade's remains.  His claymore was grasped in
one hand, and his bonnet in the other.  The
death-shot had passed through his brain, and he had
fallen in the act of cheering on his men.  His dark
locks were damp with the midnight dew, and a
formidable frown contracted his fine bold forehead.
He had lain for seven days uninterred, and Ronald
prepared to commit his body to the earth.  It was
rolled in a blanket, while Evan dug a pit three feet
deep and six long, in which the corse was deposited.

"Puir Maister Macdonald!" said Evan, as he
smoothed down the green sods.  "He was a leal true
Scotsman and a gallant gentleman: lang it may be
ere we see his maik again.  He was a gude officer,
and well was he loed by every ane."

The other officers were all placed in one grave by
the Highlanders, who, according to the ancient
Scottish custom, piled a large cairn of loose stones over
it.  It was situated on the left of the road leading
from Maya to France, and probably is yet to be
seen.  So great was the slaughter among the officers,
that Stuart, although a very junior lieutenant,
obtained a company, and succeeded his friend Seaton
in command of the "light bobs."  While the troops
lay encamped on the Pyrenees, the different corps
were soon made up to their proper strength by the
return of convalescents from Vittoria, and the arrival
of recruits from the depôts or second battalions at
home.  In about two months the Highlanders began
once more to assume the appearance of a regiment;
and Fassifern, and other officers who had been
wounded in the fatal action of the 25th July,
rejoined as soon as their scars were closed.

Along the chain of heights, strong redoubts and
block-houses were placed at intervals.  The last
were composed of horizontal logs, loop-holed for
musquetry, and occupied by strong picquets, who
were continually on the alert, in case Marshal Soult
might again pay them some sudden visit from
Gascony.  One night in October, Ronald Stuart with
his company were on duty in one of these
blockhouses, when a sudden attack was made on the
position by the enemy.  There had been a great fall
of snow, and the intense cold by which it was
accompanied added greatly to the discomfort of the
troops encamped on these bleak and lofty mountains,
with no other shelter against the inclemencies of the
weather, day and night, than canvas tents.  The
hills and valleys were completely covered to the
depth of several feet, and many sentinels were lost,
or found dreadfully frost-bitten when dug out.  A
path had been made from the Maya camp to the
block-house which Stuart was to occupy; and as his
company marched along the slippery and winding
roadway, they often saw Spanish peasants or
guerillas lying dead with shovels near them, showing
that they perished with the intensity of the cold
whilst engaged on some working or fatigue-party.
In some places a frozen grisly head, or shrunken
hand, clenched and withered, appeared above the
smooth white surface of the snow.  Had the view
around the block-house been in Greenland or
Newfoundland, it could not have presented a more dreary
aspect.  The whole of the Pyrenean chain, and the
plains of Bearn and Gascony below, were clad in the
same white livery.  The sky was of the purest,
deepest, and coldest blue, showing the most distant
summits of the Pyrenean chain, the white peaks of
which rose in long perspective beyond each other in
an infinity of outlines.  The dense smoke from the
camp fires was curling up from amidst the
dingy-coloured tents, where now and then the beat of a
drum rang out sharply into the clear and frosty air.

Although the cold was intense, and the legs of
the Highlanders were as red as their jackets, the
sun was shining brightly, and the whole surface of
the earth and the atmosphere were sparkling and
glittering in his radiance.  With their musquets
slung and a piper playing before them, the light
company trod merrily up the ascent, many of them
singing aloud to the notes of the pipe and the
tramp of their feet, which sounded dull and hollow
on the hard and frozen path.  A captain of the 34th
regiment, whom with his company they relieved,
left Stuart a flask of brandy, for which he and his
two subs (Chisholm and Evan Macpherson) were
very thankful, and they found it a considerable
acquisition during a winter day and night in a log-house,
where the wind went in and out at a hundred
chinks and crannies.  The picquet-house was
internally one large apartment, in the centre of which
the soldiers piled their arms, and huddled close
together on the ground for mutual heat, and to
avoid the cold blast which blew through the
numerous open loop-holes in the four walls of the
edifice.

Towards night, a soldier of the 66th regiment,
muffled up in his grey great-coat, came toiling up
the steep ascent from the valley below, bringing
to Stuart a letter, which had arrived from Lisbon in
the packet for his corps.  An officer of the 66th,
who was intimate with Ronald, had despatched it
to him forthwith, and he knew in an instant, by the
hand-writing and the crest on the seal, that it came
from Alice Lisle.  Giving the Englishman a glass of
brandy, he desired him to lose no time in regaining
his quarters, in case of a snow-storm setting in
before nightfall.

If any thing would serve to buoy up one's spirits
amid all the miseries of campaigning and the
dangers of daily warfare, such letters as those of Alice
Lisle certainly must have had that effect.  After
expressing her delight for Stuart's success and
safety in a manner and delicacy of style peculiarly her
own, she continued thus:—

"And so you are really now a captain, and knight
of a military order?  O Heaven!  I can scarcely
believe it, even when your name appears in the army
list.  How short a time has elapsed since you used
to harry the nests of the eagle and owl at Tullyisla,
among the dark nooks of the old castle, and gather
flowers and berries with Louis and me in Strathonan!
You well know, dear Ronald, that no one rejoices
more than Alice Lisle at your rapid promotion, but
indeed I think it very horrid to owe one's advancement
to the death of one's friends, and I see that a
sad alteration has taken place among the officers
of the Gordon Highlanders since the battle of the
Pyrenees.  The joy I now feel in the knowledge
of your—alas! only temporary—safety and good
fortune, will scarcely counterbalance the agony of
mind I experienced when the news of Vittoria
arrived, and your name appeared in the list of wounded.
Papa concealed the papers from me for some days,
but I heard of it from my foster-sister, Jessie
Cavers, and until your letters, dated from the "Maya
Camp" reached us, my anxiety and perturbation of
spirit are quite indescribable.  What was thought of
your danger by the people up the glen at Lochisla I
really know not, but the whole country side was in
an uproar in honour of the victory.  The banner was
displayed from the tower, a huge bonfire blazed on
the summit of Craigonan, and the two old cannon on
the bartizan were kept booming away the live-long
night, greatly to the terror of all the old ladies
within ten miles, who supposed that Buonaparte in
person had come up the Tay, and landed a host of
be-whiskered grenadiers on the Inches of Perth.
The noise of the cannon alarmed others, too.  The
militia, the fencibles, and the volunteers got under
arms; many of the chiefs north of this began to
muster their people, and the whole country was in a
state of commotion.  Your father gave a dinner to
his kin and tenantry, and dancing, drinking, and
piping were kept up, I believe, in the old hall until
the morning sun shone down the glen upon them."

Rolled up in his cloak, Ronald sat sipping his
brandy and water, while by the light of a streaming
candle he conned over the letter, so much absorbed
in its contents as to forget every thing around him,
until the report of a musquet, fired by the sentinel
outside the block-house, caused him to start and leap
to his feet as if he had received an electric shock.

"The French, and in this frosty night!" exclaimed
Macpherson, leaping up from the ground,
on which he had been fast asleep.  "Now the devil
confound them! they might have chosen daylight for
their visit.  Come, Stuart, leave your love-letter,—it
can scarcely be any thing else, as you have been
reading it all night,—leave it, and attend to your
command, or Wellington will be issuing such another
order anent love-letters as he gave us about the
wild-pigs at Alba."

"We receive more reprehensions than rewards
from head-quarters, certainly.  But where are the
French?  Among the hills?"

"Close by, man!"

"In force, too!" added Chisholm, a smart little
sub, who had been watching them from a loop-hole.
"There will be heads broken in ten minutes."

"I believe you, my boy," answered Evan Macpherson,
(a tall fellow, with thick black curly hair
and a keen dark eye,) as he adjusted his sword-belt.
"They are in force enough to put us all to
our mettle."

"Stand to your arms, men!" said Ronald; but
the order was needless, every man being at his
post.  "Be bold of heart, my lads!" he added, as
he watched the advancing enemy.  "We shall soon
be succoured."

"Not likely," said Macpherson bluntly, "with
all due deference to you, Stuart.  Mina, the
guerilla chief, with his followers, is far down the
mountains, and General Walker's brigade is scarcely
within gun-shot; so we may fight till daylight
without aid."

"Or till doomsday," retorted Stuart, "if the logs
hold together, and the ammunition lasts.  Blow,
Macvurich," said he to the piper; "give us
'*Roderick Mhic Alpain Dubh*,' and blow till the logs
shake around us."

The night was clear, the moon shone brightly,
and from their loop-holes they saw the French
advancing in considerable force,—probably two
thousand strong.  Their dark figures, enveloped in loose
great coats, were seen distinctly dotting the pure
white covering of the mountain-side, up the
slippery ascent of which they were toiling with
infinite labour.

"They are advancing in extended order," observed
Stuart, "for fear of our sending them a cannon-shot,
probably."

"Which shows they know nothing about our position."

"Certes," said Chisholm, "they are no economists
of their persons, to advance upon us over such
open ground.  They are chasseurs, probably.  The
moon shines brightly, yet no appointments glitter
about them."

"Soult is a most indefatigable fool," said Stuart.
"He causes his soldiers to fight needlessly.  Poor
fellows! they must obey their orders; but what
benefit is gained, even if this solitary picquet is cut
off?  The actions at the Pyrenees and before
Pampeluna might have taught the 'Lieutenant of the
Emperor' a little experience."

"I dare say," said Macpherson, "they are within
range now."

"Well, then, we will enjoy some shooting with
them," replied his captain.  "Line the loop-holes,—aim
steadily; every bullet is worth its weight in
gold to-night.  They are twenty to one, but care
not for that!  Help is at hand."

"Get into yer places, lads," said Serjeant Duncan
Macrone, "and mind ye ta level low, and gie
them ta cauld kail o' Vittoria het again.  Got
pless us; but this nicht is cauld eneuch ta freeze
ta fery Ness."

The discharge of forty musquets almost shook the
frail block-house to pieces; and while those soldiers
who had fired withdrew to reload, forty others took
their places; and thus a rapid and constant fire was
maintained against the enemy, blazing around the
redoubt and flashing incessantly from every loop-hole.
The summit of the hill was enveloped in clouds of
smoke streaked with red fire, and the echoes of the
musquetry sounded like peals of thunder, booming
through the clear atmosphere and echoing among
the surrounding peaks.  Deadly execution was done
among the advancing foe, whose killed and wounded
were seen lying prostrate on the frozen snow, and
marking the route up the hill by a series of black
spots.  Nevertheless, although their numbers were
diminishing at every step, the main body continued
to advance with unabated ardour, formed in a wide
half-circle at extended order, returning as well as
they could the fire of their adversaries, upon whose
place of concealment their shot came every instant,
tearing away huge splinters or sinking deep into
the stockade with a dull heavy sound; but only a
single bullet, during a hot contest of two hours,
entered the block-house.  It passed through a
loophole, and wounded a Highlander named Allan
Warristoun in the neck, passing through his leather
stock, and he sunk on the ground bleeding profusely;
but Chisholm attempted to stanch the blood, by
dressing the wound as well as circumstances would
permit.  This was the only casualty that occurred
during that night's skirmish, but terrible execution
was done among the enemy.  They were kept
completely at bay, until they became wearied and
disheartened by the slaughter made among them.  The
light-company being excellent marksmen, every
shot they fired told fatally on the assailants, at
whom they could aim unseen with the utmost coolness
and precision.  After enduring that sort of work
for nearly two hours, they retired with the utmost
expedition on perceiving a strong body of Spanish
guerillas advancing up the mountains from the
village of Roncesvalles.  A little further off was seen
the brigade of General Walker, which the noise of
the firing had summoned to arms; but their
appearance was needless, as the conflict was over.

"Here comes Mina,—the king of Navarre!"
exclaimed Stuart, as the great mob of guerillas
came rushing up the mountains with shouts of
"*Viva Ferdinand*!  Long live Spain!" &c.  "Cease
firing, lads, and let the French retreat.  Poor
devils! we have mauled them sadly.  They are lying as
thick as blackberries on the hill-side."  In less than
half an hour the French had disappeared, and the
block-house was surrounded by the bold guerillas,
their appetite for blood and plunder having been
keenly whetted by the report of the musquetry.

"Let those who have watches and any loose
pesetas in their purses, look well to them," said
Chisholm, laughing.  "Here come the honest soldiers
of General Mina, who is said to be often a little
upon the *picaro* himself."

"The licht-fingered loon will be waur than ony
warlock, gin he gets his neive into my *sporran
molloch*!" said Iverach, clasping the fox's mouth of
his Highland purse.

"Or mine," said Sergeant Macrone.  "Ta will
pe gettin' plenty cauld iron, but no a prass podle
frae me, Got tam!"

"The bonnets! the bonnets!  Gude guide us,
look at the blue bonnets!" exclaimed the Highlanders,
astonished at the head-dress of the Biscayan
guerillas, who wore flat blue caps, like those of the
Scottish peasantry.  Daylight had now dawned,
and withdrawing the barricading from the door of
the picquet-house, Stuart issued forth amidst the
guerillas, who were busy stripping the French; and
long practice had rendered their fingers so nimble,
that in ten minutes the numerous bodies lying
strewed around the position were, like those at
Maya, denuded of every article of clothing.  Many
of the wounded were also stripped, and perished
miserably on the frozen snow.  Like all the
Spanish peasantry, the guerillas were stout and
handsome men, from Guipuscoa, Alava, and Biscaya.
Nearly all wore the *zammarra*, or jacket of black
sheep-skin, knee breeches, and *abarcas*, or shoes of
hog-skin tied to the feet like sandals.  All wore the
broad Basque cap, and were armed to the teeth with
musquets, pistols, pikes, poniards, and offensive
weapons of every kind, which, with their huge whiskers
and moustaches, gave them the appearance of a
desperate horde of bandits.  Their language, the
*Lingua Bascongado*, or *Bascuence*, as the Spaniards
name it, sounded strange to the ear of Ronald, who
had been accustomed to the pure and sonorous language
of the Castiles.  That of the Basques, according
to their own account, existed before the building
of the tower of Babel, and was brought into Spain
by Jubal,—an assertion somewhat difficult to prove.

Coming from amidst his plundering followers, the
celebrated Mina advanced towards Ronald Stuart.
His dress was in no way different from that of his
followers, save that a pair of gay French epaulets
adorned his sheep-skin jacket, and a black ostrich
feather floated from the band of his sombrero over
his left shoulder.  Pasted upon his shoulder-belt
was a picture of the Virgin Mary, and a golden
image of the same personage hung round his neck.
He was accoutred with sword and dagger, and
carried a short carbine in his hand, the ammunition
for which was in a cartouch-box on his left side,
balanced on his right by a copper bugle for
summoning his followers.  He had a fine open
countenance, of a very mild and prepossessing expression,
quite different from what Stuart expected to find
in the leader of many thousand guerillas.

The following description (taken from a journal
of the period of which I write) will best illustrate
his character to the reader.  "Espoz y Mina was
at this time between twenty and thirty years old,
and his frame, both of body and mind, had received
the stamp which the circumstances of his country
required.  When he lies down at night it is always
with his pistols in his girdle; and on the few nights
that he ever passes under a roof, the door is well
secured.  Two hours' sleep is sufficient for him.
When his shirt is dirty, he goes to the nearest house,
and changes it with the owner for a clean one.  He
makes his own powder in a cave among the mountains,
and has his hospital in a mountain village,
which the French have repeatedly attempted to
surprise, but always unsuccessfully, for the hearts of
the whole country are with Mina.  He receives
intelligence of every movement of the enemy, and on
the first tidings of danger the villagers carry the sick
and wounded upon litters on their shoulders into
the fastnesses, where they remain in perfect
security till the baffled enemy retires.  The alcaldes
of every village, when they are ordered by the
French to make any requisition, must instantly
inform Mina; if they fail in this duty, he goes
himself in the night, seizes them in their beds, and
shoots them."

Although not above five-and-twenty, the hard
service he had seen, in this irregular mode of
warfare, made him seem much older.  Mina was the
idol of the Spanish people, who styled him the
king of Navarre, and extolled his deeds beyond those
of the Cid, or the most famous knights of Spanish
chivalry and romance.  Mina was a true patriot,
and the Hoffer of the Spaniards.  Although his
guerillas were well drilled, and consisted of ten or
twelve battalions, which he ruled with a rod of
iron, he never restrained them from plundering the
French.  On his approach, Ronald raised his bonnet
in greeting the great guerilla chief, for though he
was originally but a humble farmer of Pampeluna,
yet Francisco Mina had the heart of a hero, and
was brave as a lion.

"*Senor Capitan*," said he, bowing profoundly,
after the most approved Spanish manner, "we
have been somewhat late in coming to your rescue;
but the fire of your soldiers has told superbly, and
the base *ladrones* lie here pretty thick.  The old
proverb should be changed to—"the more French,
the more gain for us."[\*]  However, I never put my
own hands to a man after he is dead: the plunder
I leave to my followers,—'tis all their pay, poor
fellows! and Our Lady del Pilar knows that they
earn it hard."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] A very old Spanish proverb, still universally current in
Spain, says, "The more Moors, the more gain."

.. vspace:: 2

"A mode of payment I very little admire," said
Stuart with a smile.  "But I trust, Senor Francisco,
that your people will see them buried after this
unharnessing is over?"

"*Satanas* seize us if we bury a hair of their
heads!" exclaimed the guerilla vehemently.  "Pho!
Senor Cavalier, you forget yourself.  They are only
Frenchmen; and what say the priests every day,—'Love
all mankind *but* Frenchmen, who are the
spawn of hell!'  They lie under the ban of his
holiness the Pope, and with this excuse three
hundred unfrocked friars serve in my band,—and
brave fellows they are as ever grasped hilt!  But
as for the soldiers of the Corsican tyrant, they may
feast the wolves of the mountains or the birds of
the air, for aught that Mina cares about the matter."

He now unslung a huge leathern flask of *aguardiente*
from his sash, and after giving Stuart and
his subs each a draught, he handed the rest to
Sergeant Macrone, to distribute among the light
company.  Macrone gave his best bow and carried
off the flask, with many a wish that "Got might
pless her honour's ainsel, and gie her lots o' ta
sneeshin and ta gude Ferintosh!"  To the good wishes
of Macrone, Mina replied only by a stare, without
comprehending a syllable.  He next gave some
cigars to each of the officers, saying, at the same
time, it was no compliment to present them with
what cost him nothing, one of his guerillas having
found them in a Frenchman's havresack.

"But they are prime cigars, senores, and from
the manufactory at Guadalaxara, in Mexico," said
he, lighting one adroitly by means of flashing
powder in the pan of one of his pistols.  "Excellent!"
continued he, puffing away with an air of
satisfaction, which would have driven the royal
author of the 'Counter-blaste' to his wit's-end.
"Excellent indeed, *par Diez*!  And I ought to
be a judge, senores, having smoked some hundred
thousands in my time, and though but a poor
peasant who dug the earth and planted cabbages
at Pampeluna, I am descended in a direct line from
the noble cavalier Don Hernandez de Toledo, who
in 1559 introduced the famous leaf into Europe,
from the province of Tabaca in San Domingo."

"Truly, Senor Espoz y Mina, your worthy ancestor
deserves the gratitude of his countrymen,"
said Chisholm, in a tone of raillery.  "He
contrived a very agreeable amusement for them.  From
day-dawn till sunset they do little else than draw
smoke into their mouths, and watch it curling out
again."

Mina fixed his keen dark eye with a glance of
displeasure upon Chisholm's good-natured
countenance, but made no reply to him.

"Juan de la Roca!" cried he, in a voice like
thunder, while he struck his foot impatiently on
the frozen snow.

"Senor?" answered a childish voice; and a tall
Spanish boy about sixteen years of age stood before
him.  This mere child fought in the band of Mina.

He was esteemed the bravest among them and
always led their advanced guard, and his name had
been blazoned forth in all the *Gacetas* of the country.

"Bring the spy before us."

The boy, Juan de la Roca, who was armed like
his comrades with pistols and carbine, dragged
forward a peasant, whose arms were bound with
cords behind him.  The poor wretch trembled violently
when the proud stern eye of Mina fell upon him.

"This is a notorious spy, senores," said he,
"whom we captured on our way up the mountains.
Now, *Senor Picaro*, what have you to say that you
should not die?"

The spy never raised his eyes, and maintained a
dogged silence.

"Brand him, Juan!" exclaimed Mina.  "Place
the mark of Cain upon his forehead, that every true
Spaniard may shun, abhor, and shrink from him!"

The young savage, whom practice had rendered
expert at the operation, unsheathed his dagger, and
cut off the ear of the captive, from whom a deep
imprecation escaped.  Juan then thrust into the
picquet-fire in the block-house, an iron brand, just
such as those used for marking barrels, &c.  It bore
the words "VIVA MINA!" in letters half an inch
square.  Four powerful guerillas grasped the head
of the spy, holding him so that it was impossible
he could move.  When the brand was red-hot La
Roca pressed it upon his brow, the flesh of which
was roasted and scorched, under the terrible
operation, in a moment.  The miserable being writhed
and shrieked in agony.  He burst from his torturers,
and buried his face in the snow; then starting up
with the yell of a fiend, he rushed down the
mountains like a madman, and disappeared.

"Now, senores," said Mina, "I have inflicted upon
him a punishment worse than death, because these
marks can never be effaced.  I mark every traitor
thus, that my countrymen may know and despise
them.  Those who are thus branded are ashamed
to look a Spaniard in the face, and, being compelled
to dwell in solitary places, are often found dead of
want among the mountains.  But I must now make
my adieus, and return to Roncesvalles, where my
five thousand followers are to be reviewed to-day
by Lord Wellington and General Morillo."

He blew a blast on his horn to collect his people,
and taking farewell of the *Capitan de Cazadores* (as
he named Stuart), withdrew in the direction of the
famous pass of Roncesvalles, leaving the bodies of
the French lying stripped to the skin amidst the
snow.  As soon as they had departed, Stuart ordered
out the light company with shovels, to entomb the
bodies; but so deep was the snow, that temporary
graves in its frail substance only could be given, as
there was not time to dig down to reach the earth.
Many were found on the point of death, the intense
cold finishing what the bullet had begun, and their
grave-diggers had to await, shovel in hand, the
moment of dissolution; after which they buried, and
heaped the snow hurriedly over them.  But a thaw
came a short time before the position on the heights
was abandoned, and the remains of the unfortunates
were again exposed, and at a time when no interment
could be given them, as the British forces were on
the march to invade the "sacred territory" of *la
belle France*.

The success of Sir Thomas Graham at San Sebastian,
which he boldly won by storm on the 31st of
August, the fall of Pampeluna, which on the 31st
of October surrendered to Don Carlos de Espana,
and the successful passage of the Bidassoa, infused
the highest ardour into the heart of every soldier in
the allied army, and every regiment longed to
unfurl its triumphant banners to the winds of France.
Although the French maintained their ancient
renown in arms by fighting to the last, yet they were
driven from all their intrenched camps on the Lower
Pyrenees, and combating every rood of ground,
retired on the 16th of November to the left bank of
the Nive, and there encamped, after blowing up the
bridge to prevent the British crossing the river,
which at that time was swollen to thrice its usual
size by the melting of the snow on the hills, and
by a long continuance of rain.

The allies encamped on the Spanish side of the
river, and hostilities ceased for a time.  The Gordon
Highlanders occupied the French village of Cambo,
in the department of the Lower Pyrenees, and close
to the river Nive.  Its inhabitants had all fled on
the advance of the allies, crossing to the left bank
with the retiring forces of their emperor.  The camps
and bivouacs of the French lay close to those of
their enemies, divided only by the narrow space of
the river, and the sentries on each side were but ten
or fifteen yards distant from each other.  From dawn
until sunset the French Serjeants were heard
continually drilling their squads of conscripts, twenty
thousand of whom Buonaparte had dragged away
from their quiet homes, and marched to the Nive to
be drilled in the view of that veteran army, which
had driven the flower of the soldiers of France from
one end of the Peninsula to the other.  Day
after day the French non-commissioned officers were
seen, cane in hand, getting the poor peasant-boys
into some state of discipline.  The British used to
crowd to the river's edge to view the novel sight of
French regiments on their parade, and beholding
them go through the *maniement des armes*, or
manual exercise, with all the minuteness common to
the French,—the adjutant giving, after every word
of command, the continual cautions, "*un, deux,
trois, quatre!*"

At one part where the river was very narrow, a
soldier of the 3rd Buffs, when on sentry one day,
found himself immediately opposite to a French
grenadier, placed on the same duty on the left bank
of the river.  The Gaul was a rough-whiskered
fellow, wearing the usual service-like great coat, red
epaulets, and high fur cap of the Imperial Guard.
The sentinels had been staring steadily at each other
for some time, and the Buff who had begun to
imagine the face of the Frenchman was not unknown
to him, was considerably astonished to hear him ask
the question,—

"Well, Tom, old fellow!  How are the dirty old
Buffs coming on?"  This rogue was a comrade of
his own, who, a year or two before had deserted to
the enemy, and had the cool impudence to hail his
old friend thus from the French side of the Nive.

On the evening of the 8th of November, the weather
being remarkably fine, the French officers sent
their bands to the river-side to play for the
entertainment of the British, and many courtesies were
interchanged; flasks of wine and bunches of fruit
were tossed over by the French, who, avoiding
military topics, conversed with soldier-like frankness on
other subjects.  Ronald took the opportunity to
inquire after his old acquaintance, Captain de Mesmai,
and was informed that his regiment, the 10th
Cuirassiers, was stationed at St. Jean de Luz, near
Bayonne.  A young officer of *chasseurs à cheval*
said he hoped the British passed their time pleasantly
amid the gaieties of Cambo, and with the fair
dames of that beautiful city.  Stuart replied in the
same tone of raillery, that the French ladies had
all retired with their countrymen, at the sight of
the scarlet coats; an answer which evidently piqued
monsieur.

In exchange for some London newspapers, containing
the despatches of Lord Wellington, detailing
the victory of Vittoria, an old major, wearing a dozen
medals on his breast, threw across the river a
bundle of Parisian *Moniteurs*, containing the false and
very contradictory despatches of King Joseph on
the same affair.  Some Spanish Journals, the *Gaceta
de la Regencia*, and the *Gaceta de Valencia*, they
refused to receive, and politely returned.  Between
deadly enemies, intercourse such as this renders
war at once noble and chivalric.  By it the heart
of the sternest soldier becomes again humanized,
and the barbarities incident to his profession are
lessened and mitigated.

On the same evening a remarkable circumstance
occurred, about a mile above Cambo.  A French
guard were about to kill a bullock for their rations;
but the animal broke loose, and plunging into the
stream, swam to the British side, and fell among a
picquet of the Gordon Highlanders, commanded by
Chisholm; by them it was instantly shot, flayed, and
cut up, and all were rejoicing in expectation of a
savoury meal, when a French soldier, with a white
handkerchief displayed on the point of his sword,
forded the river; advancing to the picquet, he
craved in the name of his comrades, that the flesh might
be divided, adding that surely *les Ecossois* would
not deprive brothers of the sword of the only meal
chance had given them for two days.  It was
impossible to refuse.  Two other soldiers arrived, and
they were sent back laden with half the carcase, and
their canteens filled with wine, for which the poor
fellows seemed very grateful; and one returned,
presenting the thanks and compliments of their officer
to Chisholm for his kindness.[\*]  The officers of each
army spent the evening in conversing across the
river, laughing and jesting like old friends; and
when it grew dark, with many adieus they parted,—to
meet on the next morning with their swords in
their hands.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] An occurrence almost the same as here stated happened with
the same regiment at the lines of Torres Vedras, in 1810.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CHÂTELET`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CHÂTELET.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "They sought her baith by bower and ha';
   |    The ladye was not seen!
   |  She's ower the border, and awa'
   |    Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean!"
   |                            *Scott.*

.. vspace:: 2

I must now present the reader with a change of
scene, or at least of adventures, in describing those
of Louis Lisle; who, after having been severely
wounded in the arm by the sword of De Mesmai,
was carried off a prisoner from the skirmish of
Fuente Duenna.  With a few hundred other captives,
gleaned up on different occasions, he had been
confined within the strong fortress of Pampeluna
until the French army retired beyond it, when, with
his comrades in misfortune, he was sent into France
and placed in a solitary strong-hold on the left bank
of the Nive, a few miles from the village of Cambo.
This was a gloomy old feudal fortress, the property
of the Duke of Alba de T——, who has already
figured in preceding chapters.  It consisted of a
high square keep, a few flanking towers, and a high
wall, embattled along the top; and every means had
been taken to strengthen the place by stockades,
loop-holes, cannon, &c.  The garrison consisted of
two or three companies of the 105th French regiment
of the line.  Louis, who had been heartily tired
of his residence in Pampeluna, was but little pleased
when he beheld the gloomy château, as the body of
prisoners, with an escort of French lancers, marched
up the ascent leading to it.

It was on a dark and louring November morning,
when the black towers, the grey palisades, the
gloomy court, and muffled-up sentinels appeared
more sombre in the dull red light of the sun, which,
like a crimson globe, seemed resting on the eastern
summits of the Pyrenees, and struggling to show its
face through the masses of dun clouds which floated
across the sky.  The tri-coloured standard of the
emperor was drooping on the summit of the keep,
and the guard were under arms as the prisoners
entered the gate.  These consisted principally of
Spaniards and Portuguese; there were a few
British soldiers, but Louis was the only officer,—and a
very discontented one he seemed, as he looked
forward with considerable repugnance to a long
imprisonment in France.

As they halted and formed line in the court of
the fortress, Lisle was somewhat surprised to hear
himself accosted in Spanish by an officer, who,
muffled in a large military cloak, came from the
keep.  He recognised his friend of Aranjuez, the
father of Donna Virginia,—the same traitorous
Spanish noble who now openly served Buonaparte; and
as commandant of a French garrison wore a staff-uniform
embroidered with oak-leaves.  Lisle thought
of Virginia,—indeed he never thought of aught else:
and veiling his dislike to the duke, he answered him
as politely as possible.  He would fain have asked
after the fair donna, but feared to arouse the keen
and ready suspicions of the proud and pompous
Spaniard, while so completely within his power.  The
duke behaved to him coldly but courteously; and,
after receiving his parole of honour that he would
not transgress the bounds of the châtelet, invited
him to dinner, and retired.

Louis was now his own master, with leave to
perambulate as much as he chose the court-yard and
palisades of the out-works, while the sentries from
every nook and corner kept sharp eyes upon him,
and often, when he attempted to pass their posts,
barred the way with ported arms, and saying,
"Pardon me, monsieur, you must not pass;" but with a
softness of tone and politeness of manner, very
different from what those of a British sentinel would
be on a similar occasion.

The hours passed slowly away, and Louis began
to feel very disconsolate, and very impatient of the
monotony and restraint of a prisoner's life, forming
as it did so strong a contrast to the heart-stirring
excitement of campaigning.  As it was contrary to
their orders, the sentinels could not converse with
him, and in truth his French was none of the best;
so he passed the time in sauntering dismally about
until the sun began to verge westward, and he knew
that the dinner-hour was approaching.  In the mean
time, he wiled away the hours as well as he could,
by whistling a march, humming a waltz, or tossing
pebbles and fragments of lime from the ramparts
to raise circles and bubbles in the Nive, which swept
round an angle of the rocks on which the fortress
stood.  These employments he varied by watching
with an intense interest the distant Pyrenees, in
hopes to see the far away glitter of arms announce
the approach of the allies, whose troops he knew to
be in that direction.  The eagerness of his glance
towards Spain did not escape the observation of
messieurs the sentries of the 105th; and they
twirled their moustaches and regarded each other with a
truly French smile of hauteur and complaisance, as
they strode briskly to and fro on their posts; and
one young man, pointing towards the Lower Pyrenees,
remarked to him significantly with a smile,
"*Ce pays sent lapoudre à canon, monsieur!*"[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Literally, "this place, or country, smells of gunpowder, sir."

.. vspace:: 2

About four o'clock in the afternoon (an early
hour in 1813) dinner was announced, and Lisle
was ushered into an ancient hall, roofed with oak
and floored with stone, but in no way very
magnificent.  There he was received by the duke and
his daughter, Virginia, who, having heard of her
*friend's* arrival, was dressed with unusual care to
receive him; her woman had been occupied two
good hours in arranging the massive braids of
her glossy hair in a way to please their coquettish
owner.  A few officers of the French regiment were
present, and Louis could have dispensed with their
presence very well.  He felt jealous at the very
sight of them, as they were all handsome fellows,
chevaliers of the Legion and many other orders.
Besides, a Frenchman makes love as no other man
does, and a douce Scot is certainly no match for
him in volubility of words and laughter.  There was
a Spaniard present, who, although not greatly gifted
with personal attractions, appeared to pay so much
attention to Virginia, that Lisle cursed him in his
heart for his impudence, and began to form plans
for calling him to a severe account for his
presumption.

Like the duke, this unworthy hidalgo was a
renegade, and had been created by Joseph Buonaparte
Count of Aranjuez, and Colmenare de Orija, and
knight of the Stole,—an ancient order instituted by
the kings of Arragon.  He greeted Lisle coldly
enough.  They had met before at Aranjuez, where
he bore the name of Felix Joaquin, of the order of
Calatrava; for true Spaniards refused to
acknowledge the titles he bore from the usurper's hand.
The donna behaved with the same affability to him
as to the other guests, being unwilling to let him
perceive that she understood his attentions; but
the delight of Louis at again beholding her and
conversing with her, was clouded by chagrin and
anger.  He soon became aware that the open and
intrusive attentions of the *ci-devant* condé were
licensed by the approbation of the old duke.

The dinner passed over quietly enough.  Military
matters were avoided by all but one little Gascon
major, who found it impossible to refrain from
detailing to Lisle, with evident exultation, an account
of Soult's forcing the passes of Maya and Roncesvalles
on the 25th July,—affairs from which, if the
numerical force on each side is considered, but very
little honour accrues to France.  Encouraged by
the applause of his own officers, who were evidently
quizzing him, the little Gascon entertained the
company with an account of his own particular exploits
at Maya, where, by his own tale, he had three horses
shot under him.  One anecdote did not fail to
interest Lisle.  He stated, that on a party of a Scots
regiment, (*sans culottes*,) who hurled large stones
on the 105th, he took terrible vengeance, by
mounting the rock, which they possessed, and putting
them to death with his own hand!

"*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!"

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

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

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PASSAGE OF THE NIVE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   PASSAGE OF THE NIVE.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "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.*

.. vspace:: 2

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."[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Wellington's Spanish title.

.. vspace:: 2

"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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

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.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   THE END.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center small white-space-pre-line

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

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::