"We have only just heard where you were quartered," he went on. "We have both been trying in vain, all the morning, to find you; not a soldier of your regiment was to be seen in the streets and, although we questioned many officers, none could say where you were.

"You went off so suddenly, last night, that I had no opportunity of expressing our gratitude to you and your officers."

"You said enough, and more than enough, last night, count," Terence replied; "and we are all glad, indeed, that we were able to protect both your houses. Lord Wellington informed me that you had called upon him, and spoken highly of the service we had been able to render you. Pray say no more about it. I can quite understand what you feel, and I can assure you that no thanks are due to me, for having done my duty as a British officer and a gentleman on so lamentable and, I admit, disgraceful an occasion."

"My wife and daughters, and those of the Marquis of Valoroso, are all most anxious to see you, and thank you and your officers. They were too frightened and agitated, last night, to say aught and, indeed, as they say, they scarcely noticed your features. Can you bring your officers round now?"

"I am sorry to say I cannot do that, senor. They have to see after the arrangements and comfort of the men, the getting of the rations, the cooking, and so on. Tomorrow they will, I am sure, be glad to pay you a visit."

"But you can come, can you not, colonel?"

"Yes, I am at liberty now, count, and shall be happy to pay my respects to the senoras."

"The more I hear," the marquis said, as they walked along together, "of the events of last night, the more deeply I feel the service that you have rendered us. I am unable to understand how it is that your soldiers should behave with such outrageous violence to allies."

"It is very disgraceful, and greatly to be regretted, senor; but I am bound to say that, as I have now gone through four campaigns, and remember the conduct of the Spanish authorities to our troops during our march to Talavera, our stay there, and on our retreat, I am by no means surprised that among the soldiers, who are unable to draw a distinction between the people and the authorities, there should be a deep and lasting hatred. There is no such hatred for the French.

"Our men fought the battle of Talavera when weak with hunger; while the Spaniards, who engaged to supply them with provisions, were feasting. Our men were neglected and starved in the hospitals, and would have died to a man had not, happily for them, the French arrived, and treated them with the greatest humanity and kindness. Soldiers do not forget this sort of thing. They know that, for the last three years, the promises of the Spanish authorities have never once been kept, and that they have had to suffer greatly from the want of transport and stores promised. We can, of course, discriminate between the people at large and their authorities; but the soldiers can make no such distinction and, deeply as I deplore what has happened here, I must own that the soldiers have at least some excuse for their conduct."

The two Spaniards were silent.

"I cannot gainsay your statement," the Count de Montego said. "Indeed, no words can be too strong for the conduct of both the central, and all the provincial juntas."

"Then, senor, how is it that the people do not rise and sweep them away, and choose honest and resolute men in their place?"

"That is a difficult question to answer, colonel. It may be said, why do not all people, when ill governed, destroy their tyrants?"

"Possibly because, as a rule, the tyrants have armies at their backs; but here such armies as there are, although nominally under the orders of the juntas, are practically led by their own generals, and would obey them rather than the juntas.

"However, that is a matter for the Spanish people alone. Although we have suffered cruelly by the effects of your system, please remember that I am not in the smallest degree defending the conduct of our troops; but only trying to show that they had, at least, some excuse for regarding the Spaniards as foes rather than as allies; and that they had, as they considered, a long list of wrongs to avenge."

"There is truth in all you say, colonel. Unfortunately, men like ourselves, who are the natural leaders of the people, hold aloof from these petty provincial struggles; and leave all the public offices to be filled with greedy adventurers, and have been accustomed to consider work of any kind beneath us. The country is paying dearly for it, now. I trust, when the war is over, seeing how the country has suffered by our abstention from politics, and from the affairs of our provinces, we shall put ourselves forward to aid in the regeneration of Spain."

By this time they had arrived at the door of the count's house. The street had been to some extent cleared; but shattered doors, broken windows, portions of costly furniture, and household articles of all sorts still showed how terrible had been the destruction of the previous night. Large numbers of the poorer class were at work clearing the roads, as the city authorities had been ordered, by Lord Wellington, to restore order in all the thoroughfares.

The count led the way up to the drawing room. The countess and her three daughters rose.

"I introduced our brave defender to you last night," the count said, "but in the half-darkened room, and in the confusion and alarm that prevailed, you could have had but so slight a view of him that I doubt whether you would know him again."

"I should not, indeed," the countess said. "We have been speaking of him ever since, but could not agree as to his appearance.

"Oh, senor, no word can tell you how grateful we feel to you for your defence of us, last night. What horrors we should have suffered, had it not been for your interposition!"

"I am delighted to have been of service to you, senora. It was my duty, and it was a very pleasurable one, I can assure you; and I pray you to say no more about it."

"How is it that you speak Spanish so well, senor?" the countess asked, after her daughters had shyly expressed their gratitude to Terence.

"I owe it chiefly to a muleteer of Salamanca. I was a prisoner there last year, and he accompanied me for a month, after I had made my escape from the prison. Also, I owe much to the guerilla chief Moras, with whom I acted for six weeks, last autumn. I had learned a little of your language before and, speaking Portuguese fluently, I naturally picked it up without any great difficulty."

"Your name is not unknown to us, colonel," the count said. "Living so close to the frontier as we do, we naturally know much of what passes in Portugal; and heard you spoken of as a famous leader of a strong Portuguese regiment, that seems to have been in the thick of all the fighting. But we heard that you had been taken prisoner by the French, at the battle of Fuentes d'Onoro."

"Yes, I had the misfortune to be captured by them, and was sent to Salamanca; but I escaped by the aid of a girl who sold fruit in the prison. A muleteer took me with him on a journey to Cadiz, and thence I came round to Lisbon by ship."

"You seem very young to have seen so much service, if you will excuse my saying so, colonel."

Terence smiled.

"I have had great luck, senor; extraordinary luck."

"Ah, colonel! We know how well you have deserved that luck, as you call it; and you would never have been in command of such a regiment if you had not done something very much out of the way to attract the attention of your commanders."

"I was not appointed to the regiment. I raised it myself; that is to say, I came upon a number of Portuguese who had been called out for service, but who had neither leader nor arms. Being anxious to fight for their country, they asked me to be their leader, and I accepted the offer. I found them docile and obedient and, with the aid of two British troopers with me, a Spanish officer, and twelve of his troopers, I established something like order and discipline and, as we were fortunate in our first affair with the enemy, they had faith in me, and I was able to raise them to a point of discipline which is, I think, now quite equal to that of our own regiments. Seeing that I had made myself useful with my corps, I was confirmed in my command, and obtained the rank of colonel in the Portuguese service; and am now a major in our own."

"I hope, senor, that later on you will tell us the story of some of your adventures. Be assured that the house and all in it are yours, and that it is not for mere curiosity that we would hear your story; but that, as we shall ever retain a grateful memory of what you have done for us, everything relating to you is of deep interest to us."

After chatting for another quarter of an hour, Terence went with the Count de Montego to the house next door. Here he received an equally warm welcome from the wife and son and daughter of the marquis.

At both houses, he was warmly urged to take up his quarters there during his stay at Ciudad; but explained that his place was with his regiment. He promised that he would call frequently, when his duties permitted him to do so.

The next day the two Spanish noblemen came to him and, after parade was over, carried off the greater portion of the officers to be also introduced to their families. From that time, three or four of the officers were always invited to dinner at each house. Terence and Ryan frequently spent their evenings there, and their hosts introduced them to many of the leading people in the town.

The Spanish general, Carlos d'Espagna, was appointed governor of Ciudad. Papers having been discovered, showing that many of the inhabitants had acted as French emissaries, these he executed without mercy. So rigorous, however, were his measures that it was felt that more than sufficient blood had been shed and, accordingly, several British deserters found in the town were pardoned. Many others of these men had fallen, fighting desperately in the breach; believing that there was no hope of mercy being extended to them, if taken prisoners.

In the siege the allies lost 1200 men and 90 officers; among whom were Generals Crawford and MacKinnon, both killed, and General Vandeleur, badly wounded. Lord Wellington was created Duke of Ciudad Rodrigo by the Spaniards, and Earl of Wellington by the English. The French loss was 300 killed and wounded, 1500 prisoners, an immense store of ammunition, and 150 guns.

Thanks to the vigilance with which the Minho regiment had guarded the line of the fords of the Yeltes, no news of the siege was received by Marmont in time for him to interfere with it. The bridge over the Aqueda had been thrown across on the 1st of January, and the siege began on the 8th but, even on the 12th, nothing was known at Salamanca of the advance of the British army; and it was not until the 15th, three days after the town had fallen, that news that the siege had begun reached Marmont at Valladolid. He had ordered his army to concentrate on Salamanca, but it was not until the 25th that 35,000 men were collected there and, on the following day, the news arrived of the fall of Ciudad.

In the meantime large numbers of labourers were being employed in repairing and strengthening the fortifications of that town, while Wellington laboured in making preparations for the siege of Badajoz. These, however, progressed but slowly, owing to the refusal of the Portuguese government to supply transport for the guns; or to furnish any facilities, whatever, for the supply of food for the army. Wellington maintained his headquarters on the Coa until the first week in March, and then moved south with the greater part of the army; Ciudad being left entirely in the hands of the Spaniards, the general supplying the governor with provisions and stores, and explaining to him the object and intention of the new works.

A very strong force was left to guard the frontier of Portugal from an invasion by Marmont; 50,000 men, of whom 20,000 were Portuguese, being scattered along the line and guarding all the passes—the Minho regiment being ordered to take post, again, at Pinhel.

Terence left Ciudad with reluctance. He had all along been treated as a dear friend, in the houses of the two Spanish noblemen, and spent most of his evenings at one or other of them. He had been obliged to tell, in full detail, all his adventures since he joined the army. The rescue of his cousin from the convent at Oporto had particularly excited the interest of the ladies, who asked innumerable questions about her.

Ryan frequently accompanied him, but his very slight knowledge of Spanish prevented him from feeling the same pleasure at the familiar intercourse. Bull and Macwitty were absolutely ignorant of the language and, although Herrara now and then accepted invitations to dinner, Terence and Ryan were the only two officers of the regiment who felt at home among the Spaniards.

Before the regiment marched off, each of the Portuguese officers was presented with a handsome gold watch bearing an inscription expressing the gratitude of the two Spanish noblemen, and their families. Bull, Macwitty, and Herrara received, in addition, heavy gold chains. Ryan received a splendid horse, with saddle, holsters, and a brace of finely-finished pistols; and a similar present was made to Terence.

On the day when he went to say goodbye, he found the ladies of both families assembled at the Count de Montego's. His host said:

"You must consider the horses and equipment as a special present from myself and the marquis, Colonel O'Connor; but the ladies of our two families wish to give you a little memorial of their gratitude."

"They are memorials only," his wife said, "and are feeble testimonies, indeed, of what we feel. These are the joint presents of the marquise and her daughter, and of myself and my girls," and she gave him a small case containing a superb diamond ring, of great value; and then a large case containing a magnificent parure of diamonds and emeralds.

"This, senor, is for your future wife. She will value it, I am sure, not so much for what it may be worth; but as a testimony of the gratitude, of six Spanish ladies, for the inestimable services that you rendered them. Perhaps they will have a special value in her eyes, inasmuch as the stones all formed a small part of the jewels of the two families that you saved from plunder. We have, of course, had them reset; and there was no difficulty in getting this done, for at present ours are, I believe, the only jewels in Ciudad."

"My dear countess," Terence said, much moved, "I do not like taking so valuable a present."

"What is it, in comparison to what you have done for us, senor? And please do not suppose that we have seriously diminished our store. Nowhere, I believe, have ladies such jewels as they have in Spain; and few families can boast of finer ones than those of the marquise and myself. And I can assure you that we shall value our jewels all the more, when we think that some of their companions will be worn by the wife of the gentleman who has preserved more than our lives."

"That is a royal gift, indeed," Herrara said, when Terence showed him the jewels. "I should be afraid to say what they are worth. Many of the old Spanish families possess marvellous jewels, relics of the day when the Spaniards owned the wealth of the Indies and the spoils of half Europe; and I should imagine that these must have been among the finest stones in the possession of both families. If I were you, colonel, I should take the very first opportunity that occurs of sending them to England."

"You may be sure that I shall do so, Herrara. They are not the sort of things to be carried about in a cavalry wallet, and I have no other place to stow them. As soon as we arrive at Pinhel, I will get a strong box made to hold the two cases, and hand them over to the paymaster there, to be sent down to Lisbon by the next convoy. He sent home all the money that I did not want to keep by me, when we were at Pinhel last."

Two other Portuguese regiments, and a brigade of British infantry, were stationed at Pinhel in readiness, at any moment, to march to Almeida or Guarda, should Marmont make a forward movement; which was probable enough, for it was evident, by the concentration of his troops at Salamanca and Valladolid, that he had no intention of marching south; but intended to leave it to Soult, with the armies of Estremadura, Castile, and Andalusia, to relieve Badajoz.

From time to time, news came from that town. The siege had begun on the 17th of March, the attack being made on a fortified hill called the Picurina; but at first the progress was slow. Incessant rain fell, the ground became a swamp, and all operations had, several times, to be suspended; while Phillipon, the brave officer who commanded the garrison, made numerous sorties from the town, with more or less success.

On the night of the 25th, an assault was made on the strong fort on the Picurina; which was captured after desperate fighting, and the loss of 19 officers and 300 men, killed and wounded. On the following day the trenches were opened for the attack upon the town itself. The assailants laboured night and day and, on the 6th, a breach had been effected in the work called the Trinidad; and this was to be attacked by the 4th and light divisions. The castle was at the same time to be assailed by Picton's division, while General Power's Portuguese were to make a feint on the other side of the Guadiana, and San Roque was to be stormed by the forces employed in the trenches.

The enterprise was well-nigh desperate. The breaches had not been sufficiently cleared, and it was known that the enemy had thrown up strong intrenchments behind them. Most of the guns were still in position to sweep the breaches, and another week, at least, should have been occupied in preparing the way for an assault. But Wellington was forced here, as at Ciudad, to fight against time. Soult was close at hand, and the British had not sufficient force to give him battle, and at the same time to continue the siege of the town; and it was therefore necessary either to carry the place at once, at whatever cost of life, or to abandon the fruits of all the efforts that had been made.

Had Wellington's instructions been carried out, there would have been no occasion, whatever, for the assault to have been delivered until the breaches were greatly extended, the intrenchments destroyed, and the guns silenced. The Portuguese ministry, however, had thwarted him at every turn; and the siege could not be commenced until a fortnight after the date fixed by Wellington. This fortnight's delay cost the lives of 4000 British soldiers.

Four of the assaults on the breaches failed. On the crest of these Phillipon had erected a massive stockade, thickly bristling with sabre blades. On the upper part of the breach, planks, similarly studded, had been laid; while on either side a vast number of shells, barrels of powder, faggots soaked in oil, and other missiles and combustibles were piled, in readiness for hurling down on the assailants; while the soldiers behind the defences had been supplied with four muskets each.

Never did British soldiers fight with such dogged bravery as was here evinced. Again and again they dashed up the breach, the centre of a volcano of fire; shells burst among them, cannon poured volleys of grape through their ranks, the French plied them with musketry, fireballs lit up the scene as if by day, mines exploded under their feet; yet again and again, they reached the terrible breastwork. But all efforts to climb it were fruitless. Numbers of those in front were pressed to death against the sabres, by the eager efforts of those behind to get up and, for hours, the assault continued. At last, seeing the impossibility of success, and scorning to retreat, the men gathered at the foot of the breach, and there endured, sternly and silently, the murderous fire that was maintained by the enemy.

Picton, however, had gained possession of the castle. Walker, with his command, had captured the bastion of San Vincenti; and part of his command fought their way along the battlement towards the breaches, while another marched through the town. Finding that the town had been entered at several points, the defenders of the breach gave way, and the soldiers poured into the town.

Here even more hideous scenes of murder and rapine were perpetrated than at Ciudad Rodrigo, and went on for two days and nights, absolutely unchecked. It has never been satisfactorily explained why, after the events in the former town, no precautions were taken, by the general commanding, to prevent the recurrence of scenes that brought disgrace on the British army, and for which he cannot be held blameless. Five thousand men and officers were killed or wounded in the siege; of these, three thousand five hundred fell in the assault.

The next three months passed without any action of importance. The discipline of the army had, as might have been expected, deteriorated greatly as a consequence of the unbridled license permitted to the soldiers after the capture of the two fortresses, and the absence of any punishment, whatever, for the excesses there committed. Lord Wellington complained bitterly, in his letters home, of the insubordination of the troops; of the outrages committed upon the peasantry, especially by detached parties; and of the general disobedience of orders. But he who had permitted the license and excesses to be carried on, unchecked and unpunished, cannot but be considered largely responsible for the natural consequences of such laxity.

In May, heavy rains prevented any movement on either side; except that the town of Almaraz, a most important position at the bridge across the Tagus, permitting Soult and Marmont to join hands, was captured by surprise by General Hill; the works, which had been considered almost impregnable, being carried by assault in the course of an hour. This was one of the most brilliant exploits of the war.

Wellington had moved north, and was again on the Aqueda and, on the 13th of June, rain having ceased, he crossed the river and, on the 16th, arrived within six miles of Salamanca, and drove a French division across the Tormes. On the 17th the river was crossed, both above and below the town, and the forts defending it were at once invested. Marmont had, that day, retired with two divisions of infantry and some cavalry; and was followed immediately by a strong British division.

The Minho regiment had been one of the first to take post on the Aqueda, after Wellington's arrival on the Coa; and moved forward in advance of the army, which was composed of 24,000 British troops, with a Spanish division and several Portuguese regiments.

As soon as Marmont had retired, Salamanca went wild with joy; although the circle of forts still prevented the British from entering. The chief of these was San Vincenti, which stood on a perpendicular cliff, overhanging the Tormes. It was flanked by two other strong forts; from which, however, it was divided by a ravine. The battering train brought with the army was altogether inadequate—only four eighteen-pounders and three twenty-four-pound howitzers were available—and the forts were far stronger than Wellington had been led to expect.

A few guns had been sent forward by General Hill and, on the 18th, seven pieces opened fire on San Vincenti. The next day some more howitzers arrived, and a breach was made in the wall of the convent; but the ammunition was exhausted, and the fire ceased until more could be brought up.

That day, however, Marmont, with a force of 20,000 men, was seen advancing to the relief of the forts. The British army at once withdrew from the neighbourhood of the convent, and took up its position, in order of battle, on the heights of San Christoval.

On the 21st, three divisions of infantry and a brigade of cavalry joined Marmont, raising his force to 40,000 men. The French, the next night, sent a portion of their force across the Tormes and, when daylight broke, the German cavalry, which had been placed to guard the ford, was seen retiring before 12,000 French infantry, with twenty guns. Graham was also sent across the Tormes with his division, which was of about the same strength as the French force and, as the light division was also following, the French retired, recrossed the ford, and rejoined the main body of their army.

The next night the batteries again opened fire on San Vincenti and, on the 27th, the fort and convent were in a blaze. One of the other forts was breached, and both surrendered, just as the storming parties were advancing to the assault; and Marmont retreated the same night across the Douro, by the roads to Tordesillas and Toro.

As soon as it was possible to enter Salamanca, Terence rode down into the town, accompanied by Ryan. The forts had not yet surrendered, but their hands were so full that they had no time to devote to annoying small parties of British officers passing into the town. Terence had noted down the address that Nita had given him, and at once rode there; after having, with some difficulty, discovered the lane in which the house was situated. An old man came to the door. Terence dismounted.

"What can I do for you, senor?"

"I wanted to ask you if your niece, Nita, is still staying with you?"

The man looked greatly surprised at the question.

"She has done no harm, I hope?" he asked.

"Not at all, but I wish to speak to her. Is she married yet to Garcia, the muleteer?"

The old man looked still more surprised.

"No, senor. Garcia is away, he is no longer a muleteer."

"Well, you have not answered me if your niece is here."

"She is here, senor, but she is not in the house at this moment. She returned here from her father's, last autumn. The country was so disturbed that it was not right that young women should remain in the villages."

"Will you tell her that a British officer will call to see her, in half an hour, and beg her to remain in until I come?"

"I will tell her, senor."

Terence went at once to a silversmith's, and bought the handsomest set of silver jewelry, such as the peasants wore, that he had in his shop; including bracelets, necklaces, large filigree hairpin and earrings, and various other ornaments.



Chapter 20: Salamanca.

"She is a lucky girl, Terence," Ryan said, as they quitted the shop. "She will be the envy of all the peasant girls in the neighbourhood, when she goes to church in all that finery, to be married to her muleteer."

"It has only cost about twenty pounds, and I value my freedom at a very much higher price than that, Dick. If I had not escaped, I should not have been in that affair with Moras that got me my promotion and, at the present time, should be in some prison in France."

"You would not have got your majority, I grant, Terence; but wherever they shut you up, it is morally certain that you would have been out of it, long before this. I don't think anything less than being chained hand and foot, and kept in an underground dungeon, would suffice to hold you."

"I hope that I shall never have to try that experiment, Dicky," Terence laughed; "and now, I think you had better go into this hotel, and order lunch for us both. It is just as well not to attract attention, by two of us riding to that lane. We have not done with Marmont, yet, and it may be that the French will be masters of Salamanca again, before long, and it is just as well not to get the old man or the girl talked about. I will leave my horse here, too. See that both of them get a good feed; they have not had overmuch since we crossed the Aqueda."

As there were a good many British officers in the town, no special attention was given to Terence as he walked along through the street, which was gay with flags. When he reached the house in the lane, the old man was standing at the door.

"Nita is in now, senor. She has not told me why you wanted to see her. She said it was better that she should not do so, but she thought she knew who it was."

The girl clapped her hands, as he entered the room to which the old man pointed.

"Then it is you, Senor Colonello. I wondered, when we heard the English were coming, if you would be with them. Of course, I heard from Garcia that you had gone safely on board a ship at Cadiz. Then I wondered whether, if you did come here, you would remember me."

"Then that was very bad of you, Nita. You ought to have been quite sure that I should remember you. If I had not done so, I should have been an ungrateful rascal, and should have deserved to die in the next French prison I got into."

"How well you speak Spanish now, senor!"

"Yes; that was principally due to Garcia, but partly from having been in Spain for six weeks, last autumn. I was with Moras, and we gave the French a regular scare."

"Then it was you, senor! We heard that an English officer was in command of the troops who cut all the roads, and took numbers of French prisoners, and defeated 5000 of their troops and, as they said, nearly captured Valladolid and Burgos."

"That was an exaggeration, Nita. Still, we managed to do them a good deal of damage, and kept the French in this part of the country pretty busy.

"And now, Nita, I have come to fulfil my promise," and he handed her the box in which the jeweller had packed up his purchases.

"These are for your wedding, Nita, and if it comes off while we are in this part of the country, I shall come and dance at it."

The girl uttered cries of delight, as she opened parcel after parcel.

"Oh, senor, it is too much, too much altogether!" she cried, as she laid them all out on the table before her.

"Not a bit of it," Terence said. "But for you, I should be in prison now. If they had been ten times as many, and ten times as costly, I should still have felt your debtor, all my life.

"And where is Garcia now?"

"He has gone to join Morillo," she said. "He always said that, as soon as the English came to our help, he should go out; so, six weeks ago, he sold all his mules and bought a gun, and went off."

"I am sorry not to have seen him," Terence said. "And now, Nita, when he returns you are to give him this little box. It contains a present to help you both to start housekeeping, in good style. You see that I have put your name and his both on it. No one can say what may happen in war. Remember that this is your joint property; and if, by ill fortune, he should not come back again, then it becomes yours."

"Oh, senor, you are altogether too good! Oh, I am a lucky girl! I am sure that no maid ever went to church before with such splendid ornaments. How envious all the girls will be of me!"

"And I expect the men will be equally envious of Garcia, Nita. Now, if you will take my advice, you will not show these things to anyone at present; but will hide them in the box, in some very safe place, until you are quite sure that the French will never come back again. If your neighbours saw them, some ill-natured person might tell the French that you had received them from an English officer, and then it might be supposed that you had been acting as a spy for us; so it is better that you should tell no one, not even your uncle—that is, if you have not already mentioned it to him."

"I have never told him," the girl said. "He is a good man and very kind; but he is very timid, and afraid of getting into trouble. If he asks me who you are and what you wanted, I shall tell him that you are an English officer who was in prison, in the convent; that you always bought your fruit of me, and said, if you ever came to Salamanca again, you would find me out."

"That will do very well. Now I will say goodbye, Nita. If we remain here after the French have retreated, I will come and see you again; for there will be so many English officers here that I would not be noticed. But there may be a battle any day; or Marmont may fall back, and we should follow him; so that I may not get an opportunity again."

"I hope you will come, I do hope you will come! I will bury all these things, this evening, in the ground in the kitchen, after my uncle has gone to bed."

"Well, goodbye, Nita. I must be off now, as I have a friend with me. When you see Garcia, you can tell him that you have given me a kiss. I am sure he won't mind."

"I should not care if he did," the girl said saucily, as she held up her face. "Goodbye, senor. I shall always think of you, and pray the Virgin to watch over you."

After Marmont fell back across the Douro there was a pause in the operations and, as the British army was quartered in and around Salamanca, the city soon swarmed with British soldiers; and presented a scene exactly similar to that which it had worn when occupied by Moore's army, nearly four years before.

"What fun it was, Terence," Ryan said, "when we frightened the place out of its very senses, by the report that the French were entering the town!"

"That is all very well, Dick; but I think that you and I were just as much frightened as the Spaniards were, when we saw how the thing had succeeded, and that all our troops were called out. There is no saying what they would have done to us, had they found out who started the report. The very least thing that would have happened would have been to be tried by court martial, and dismissed from the service; and I am by no means sure that worse than that would not have befallen us."

"Yes, it would have been an awful business, if we had been found out. Still, it was a game, wasn't it? What an awful funk they were in! It was the funniest thing I ever saw. Things have changed since then, Terence, and I am afraid we have quite done with jokes of that sort."

"I should hope so, Dick. I think that I can answer for myself, but I am by no means sure as to you."

"I like that," Ryan said indignantly. "You were always the leader in mischief. I believe you would be, now, if you had the chance."

"I don't know," Terence replied, a little more seriously than he had before spoken. "I have been through a wonderful number of adventures, since then; and I don't pretend that I have not enjoyed them in something of the same spirit in which we enjoyed the fun we used to have together; but you see, I have had an immense deal of responsibility. I have two thousand men under me and, though Bull and Macwitty are good men, so far as the carrying out of an order goes, they are still too much troopers, seldom make a suggestion, and never really discuss any plan I suggest; so that the responsibility of the lives of all these men really rests entirely upon my shoulders. It has been only when I have been separated from them, as when I was a prisoner, that I have been able to enjoy an adventure in the same sort of way that we used to do, together."

"I little thought then, Terence, that in three years and a half, for that is about what it is, I should be a captain and you a major—for I don't count your Portuguese rank one, way or the other."

"Of course, you have had two more years' regimental work than I have had. It would have been much better for me if I had had a longer spell of it, too. Of course, I have been extraordinarily fortunate, and it has been very jolly; but I am sure it would have been better for me to have had more experience as a subaltern, before all this began."

"Well, I cannot say I see it, Terence. At any rate, you have had a lot more regimental work than most officers; for you had to form your regiment, teach them discipline, and everything else; and I don't think that you would have done it so well, if you had been ground down into the regular regimental pattern, and had come to think that powder and pipe clay were actual indispensables in turning out soldiers."

The quiet time at Salamanca lasted a little over a fortnight for, in the beginning of July, Lord Wellington heard that, in obedience to King Joseph's reiterated orders, Marmont, having received reinforcements, was preparing to recross the Douro; that Soult was on the point of advancing into Portugal; and that the king himself, with a large army, was on the way to join Marmont.

The latter, indeed, was not to have moved till the king joined him but, believing that his own army was ample for the purpose; and eager to gain a victory, unhampered by the king's presence, he suddenly crossed at Tordesillas, and it was only by his masterly movements, and a sharp fight at Castile, that Wellington succeeded in concentrating his army on the Aqueda. The British general drew up his army in order of battle, on the heights of Vallesa; but the position was a strong one, Marmont knew the country perfectly and, instead of advancing to the attack, he started at daybreak on the 20th, marched rapidly up the river, and crossed it before any opposition could be offered, and then marched for the Tormes. By this movement he had turned Wellington's right flank, was as near Salamanca as were the British, and had it in his power, unless checked, to place himself on the road between Salamanca and Ciudad, and so to cut their line of retreat.

Seeing his position thus turned, Wellington made a corresponding movement, and the two armies marched along lines of hills parallel with each other, the guns on both sides occasionally firing. All day long they were but a short distance apart and, at any moment, the battle might have been brought on. But Wellington had no opportunity for fighting, except at a disadvantage; and Marmont, having gained the object for which he had manoeuvred, was well content to maintain his advantage. At nightfall the British were on the heights of Cabeca and Aldea Rubia, and so secured their former position at San Christoval.

Marmont, however, had reached a point that gave him the command of the ford at Huerta; and had it in his power to cross the Tormes when he pleased, and either to recross at Salamanca, or to cut the road to Ciudad. He had proved, too, that his army could outmarch the British for, although they had already made a march of some distance, when the race began, he had gained ground throughout the day, in spite of the efforts of the British to keep abreast of him. Moreover, Marmont now had his junction with the king's army, approaching from Madrid, securely established; and could either wait for his arrival, or give battle if he saw a favourable opportunity.

Wellington's position was grave. He had not only to consider his adversary's force, but the whole course of the war, which a disaster would imperil. He had the safety of the whole Peninsula to consider, and a defeat would not only entail the loss of the advantage he had gained in Spain, but would probably decide the fate of Portugal, also. He determined, however, to cover Salamanca till the last moment, in hopes that Marmont might make some error that would afford him an opportunity of dealing a heavy blow.

The next morning the allies occupied their old position at San Christoval, while the French took possession of Alba; whence the Spaniards had been withdrawn, without notice, to Wellington. The evening before, the British general had sent a despatch to the Spanish commander, saying that he feared that he should be unable to hold his position. The messenger was captured by the French cavalry; and Marmont, believing that Wellington was about to retreat, and fearing that he might escape him, determined to fight rather than wait for the arrival of the king.

The French crossed the Tormes by the fords of Huerta and Alba, the British by other fords above Salamanca. This movement was performed while a terrible storm raged. Many men and horses of the 5th Dragoon Guards were killed by the lightning; while hundreds of the picketed horses broke their ropes, and galloped wildly about.



The position of the British army in the morning was very similar to that occupied by a portion of it, when besieging the forts of Salamanca; extending from the ford of Santa Marta to the heights near the village of Arapiles. This line covered Salamanca; but it was open to Marmont to march round Wellington's right, and so cut his communications with Ciudad. During the night, Wellington heard that the French would be joined, in the course of two days, by twenty guns and 2000 cavalry; and resolved to retire before these came up, unless Marmont afforded him some opportunity of fighting to advantage.

The latter, however, was too confident of victory to wait for the arrival of this reinforcement, still less for that of the king and, at daybreak, he took possession of a village close to the British, thereby showing that he was resolved to force on a battle.

Near this were two detached hills, called the Arapiles or Hermanitos. They were steep and rugged. As the French were seen approaching, a Portuguese regiment was sent to seize them; and these gained the one nearest to them, while the French took possession of the second. The 7th division assailed the height first, and gained and captured half of it.

Had Wellington now wished to retire, it would have been at once difficult and dangerous to attempt the movement. His line was a long one, and it would have been impossible to withdraw, without running the risk of being attacked while in movement, and driven back upon the Tormes. Ignorant of Marmont's precise intentions—for the main body of the French army was almost hidden in the woods—Wellington could only wait until their plans were developed. He therefore contented himself with placing the 4th division on a slope behind the village of Arapiles, which was held by the light companies of the Guards. The 5th and 6th divisions were massed behind the hill, where a deep depression hid them from the sight of the enemy.

For some time things remained quiet, except that the French and British batteries, on the top of the two Hermanitos, kept up a duel with each other. During the pause, the French cavalry had again crossed the Tormes, by one of the fords used in the night by the British; and had taken post at Aldea Tejarda, thus placing themselves between the British army and the road to Ciudad. This movement, however, had been covered by the woods.

About twelve o'clock, fearing that Wellington would assail the Hermanito held by him, Marmont brought up two divisions to that point; and stood ready to oppose an attack which Wellington, indeed, had been preparing—but had abandoned the idea, fearing that such a movement would draw the whole army into a battle, on a disadvantageous line. The French marshal, however, fearing that Wellington would retreat by the Ciudad road, before he could place a sufficient force on that line to oppose the movement, sent General Maucune with two divisions, covered by fifty guns and supported by cavalry, to move along the southern ridge of the basin and menace that road; holding in hand six divisions, in readiness to fall upon the village of Arapiles, should the British interfere with Maucune's movement.

The British line had now pivoted round, until its position extended from the Hermanito to near Aldea Tejarda.

In order to occupy the attention of the British, and prevent them from moving, the French force attacked the village of Arapiles, and a fierce struggle took place. Had Marmont waited until Clausel's division, still behind, came up and occupied the ridge, so as to connect the French main army with Maucune's division, their position would have been unassailable; but the fear that Wellington might escape had overcome his prudence and, as Maucune advanced, a great gap was left between his division and that of Marmont.

As soon as Wellington perceived the mistake, he saw that his opportunity had come. Orders were despatched in all directions and, suddenly, the two divisions, hidden from the sight of the French behind the Hermanito, dashed down into the valley; where two other divisions joined them. The 4th and 5th were in front, with Bradford's Portuguese; and the 6th and 7th formed the second line; while the Spanish troops marched between them and the 3rd division, forming the extreme right at Aldea Tejarda. The light divisions of Pack's Portuguese and the heavy cavalry remained in reserve, on high ground behind them. In spite of a storm of bullets from Maucune's guns, the leading divisions marched steadily forward and, while the third division dashed across the valley and, climbing the ridge, barred his progress, the main line advanced to attack his flank.

Marmont, seeing the terrible danger in which Maucune was involved, sent officer after officer to hasten up the troops from the forest and, with his centre, prepared to attack the English Hermanito, and to drive them from that portion of the village they still held; but as he was hurrying to join Maucune a shell exploded near him, hurling him to the ground with a broken arm, and two deep wounds in his side. This misfortune was fatal to the French chances. Confusion ensued, and the movements of the troops were paralyzed.

It was about five o'clock when the 3rd division, under Pakenham, fell upon Maucune's leading division; and two batteries of artillery suddenly opened fire, on their flank, from the opposite height. Having no expectation of such a stroke; and believing that the British were, ere this, in full retreat along the Ciudad road, the French were hurrying forward, lengthening out into a long, straggling line.

The onslaught of Pakenham's division was irresistible, supported as it was by guns and cavalry. Nevertheless, the French bore themselves gallantly, forming line as they marched forward, while their guns poured showers of grape into the approaching infantry. Nothing, however, could stop them. Pressing forward, they broke the half-formed lines into fragments, and drove them back in confusion upon the columns behind. The French cavalry endeavoured to check the British advance, by a charge on their flank; but were repulsed by the infantry, and the British light horsemen charged, and drove them off the field.

Pushing forward, Pakenham came upon the second half of the division they had defeated, formed up on the wooded heights; one face being opposed to him, and the other to the 5th division, Bradford's Portuguese, and a mass of cavalry moving across the basin. The French had been already driven out of Arapiles, and were engaged in action with the 4th division; but the battle was to some extent retrieved, for Clausel's division had arrived from the forest and reinforced Maucune; and spread across the basin, joining hands with the divisions massed near the French Hermanito.

Marmont had been carried off the field. Bonnet, who had succeeded him, was disabled; and the chief command devolved on Clausel, a general of talent, possessing great coolness and presence of mind. His dispositions were excellent, but his troops were broken up into lines, columns, and squares. A strong wind raised the sandy soil in clouds of dust, the sinking sun shone full in the faces of his troops and, at once, concealed the movements of their enemies from them, and prevented them from acting with any unity.

Suddenly, two heavy bodies of light and heavy cavalry broke from the cloud of dust and fell upon them. Twelve hundred Frenchmen were trampled down and, as the cavalry rode on, the third division ran forward, at the double, through the gap that they had formed. Line after line of the French infantry was broken and scattered, and five of their guns captured by one of the squadrons. Two thousand prisoners were taken, and the three divisions that Maucune had commanded were a mass of fugitives.

In the meantime, a terrible battle was raging in the centre. Here Clausel had gathered three fresh divisions and, behind these, the fugitives from the left rallied. He placed three others, supported by the whole of the cavalry, to cover the retreat; while yet another remained behind the French Hermanito. Pack's Portuguese were advancing against it, and arrived nearly at the summit, when the French reserves leapt from the rocks and opened a tremendous fire on their front and left flank; and the Portuguese were driven down the hill, with much loss. Almost at the same moment, one of the regiments of the 4th division were suddenly charged by 1200 French soldiers, hidden behind a declivity, and driven back with heavy loss.

For a moment, it seemed that the fate of the battle might yet be changed; but Wellington had the strongest reserve, the sixth division was brought up and, though the French fought obstinately, Clausel was obliged to abandon the Hermanito; and the army began to fall back, the movement being covered by their guns and the gallant charges of their cavalry.

The whole of the British reserves were now brought into action, and hotly pressed them; but, for the most part maintaining their order, the French fell back into the woods and, favoured by the darkness, and nobly covered by Maucune, who had been strongly reinforced, they drew off with comparatively little loss, thanks to the Spaniards' abandonment of the fort guarding the ford at Alba.

Believing that the French must make for the ford of Huerta, Wellington had greatly strengthened his force on that side and, after a long march to the ford, was bitterly disappointed, on arriving there at midnight, to find that there was no sign of the enemy; although it was not until morning that he learned that they had passed unmolested over the ford of Alba. Had it not been for the Spanish disobedience and folly, Marmont's whole army would have had no resource but to surrender.

Marmont's strength when the fight began was 42,000 infantry and cavalry, and 74 guns. Wellington had 46,000 infantry and cavalry, and 60 pieces; but this included a considerable Spanish force and one of their batteries, and 10,000 Portuguese who, however, could not be reckoned as good troops. The pursuit of the French was taken up hotly next morning, and they were chased for forty miles that day but, the next morning, they eluded their pursuers, marched to Valladolid, drew off the garrison there, and left it to be occupied by the British the following day.

The Minho regiment had been, two days before the battle, attached to the 6th division. For a time, being in the second line, they looked on, impatient spectators of the fight; but, at the crisis of the battle, they were brought up to check Clausel's impetuous counter attack, and nowhere was the struggle fiercer. Hulse's brigade, to which they were attached, bore more than its share of the fighting; and the 11th and the 61st, together, had but 160 men and officers left when the battle was over. The Portuguese fought valiantly, and the fact that their countrymen had been defeated, in their attempt to capture the French Hermanito, inspired them with a fierce determination to show that Portuguese troops could fight as well as their allies. They pushed forward well abreast of the other regiments of the brigade, and suffered equally.

In vain the French attempted to check their advance. Showers of grape swept their ranks; volleys of musketry, at a distance of but a few yards, withered up their front lines and, for a time, a hand-to-hand fight with bayonets raged. In the terrible roar of artillery and musketry, words of command were unheard; but the men mechanically filled up the gaps in their ranks, and the one thought of all was to press forward until, at length, the French yielded and fell sullenly back, disputing every yard of the ground, and a fresh division took up the pursuit.

The order to halt was given. The men looked round, confused and dazed, as if waking from a dream. Grimed with powder, soaked with perspiration, breathless and haggard, many seemed scarcely able to keep their feet; and every limb trembled at the sudden cessation of the terrible strain. Then, as they looked round their ranks and to the ground they had passed over, now so thickly dotted with the dark uniforms, hoarse sobs broke from them; and men who had gone unflinchingly through the terrible struggle burst into tears. The regiment had gone into action over 2000 strong. Scarce 1200 remained unwounded. Of the officers, Bull had fallen, desperately wounded; Macwitty had been shot through the head.



A shell had struck Terence's horse and, bursting, had carried off the rider's leg above the knee. The men near him uttered a simultaneous cry as he fell and, regardless of the fight, oblivious to the storm of shot and shell, had knelt beside him. Terence was perfectly sensible.

"Do one of you give me my flask out of my holster," he said, "and another cut off the leg of my trousers, as high as you can above the wound. That is right. Now for the bandages."

As every soldier in the regiment carried one in his hat, half a dozen of these were at once produced.

"Is it bleeding much?" he asked.

"Not much, colonel."

"That is fortunate. Now find a smooth round stone. Lay it on the inside of the leg, just below where you have cut the trousers.

"Now put a bandage round and round, as tightly as you can do it. That is right.

"Now take the ramrod of one of my pistols, put it through the bandage, and then twist it. You need not be afraid of hurting me; my leg is quite numbed, at present. That is right.

"Put another bandage on, so as to hold the ramrod in its place. Now fetch a flannel shirt from my valise, fold it up so as to make a pad that will go over the wound, and bandage it there firmly.

"Give me another drink, for I feel faint."

When all was done, he said:

"Put my valise under my head, and throw my cloak over me. Thank you, I shall do very well now. Go forward and join the regiment.

"I am done for, this time," he thought to himself, when the men left him. "Still, I may pull through. There are many who have had a leg shot off and recovered, and there is no reason why I should not do so. There has not been any great loss of blood. I suppose that something has been smashed up, so that it cannot bleed.

"Ah, here comes the doctor!"

The doctor was one of several medical students who had enlisted in the regiment, fighting and drilling with the rest but, when occasion offered, acting as surgeons.

"I have just heard the news, Colonel. The regiment is heartbroken but, in their fury, they went at the French facing them and scattered them like sheep. Canovas, who told me, said that you were not bleeding much, and that he and the others had bandaged you up according to your instructions.

"Let me see. It could not have been better," he said.

He felt Terence's pulse.

"Wonderfully good, considering what a smash you have had. Your vitality must be marvellous and, unless your wound breaks out bleeding badly, I have every hope that you will get over it. Robas and Salinas will be here in a minute, with a stretcher for you; and we will get you to some quiet spot, out of the line of fire."

Almost immediately, four men came up with the stretcher and, by the surgeon's orders, carried Terence to a quiet spot, sheltered by a spur of the hill from the fire.

"There is nothing more you can do for me now, doctor?"

"Nothing. It would be madness to take the bandages off, at present."

"Then please go back to the others. There must be numbers there who want your aid far more than I do.

"You can stay with me, Leon; but first go back to where my horse is lying, and bring here the saddle and the two blankets strapped behind it. I don't feel any pain to speak of, but it seems to me bitterly cold."

The man presently returned with the saddle and blankets. Two others accompanied him. Both had been hit too seriously to continue with the regiment. Their wounds had been already bandaged.

"We thought that we should like to be near you, colonel, if you do not mind."

"Not at all. First, do each of you take a sip at my flask.

"Leon, I wish you would find a few sticks, and try to make a fire. It would be cheerful, although it might not give much warmth."

It was dark now. It was five o'clock when the 3rd division threw itself across Maucune's line of march, and the battle had begun. It was dark long before it ended but, during the three hours it had lasted, the French had lost a marshal, seven generals, and 12,500 men and officers, killed, wounded, or prisoners; while on the British side a field marshal, four generals, and nearly 6000 officers and soldiers were killed or wounded. Indeed, the battle itself was concentrated into an hour's hard fighting; and a French officer, describing it, said that 40,000 men were defeated in forty minutes.

Presently the din of battle died out and, as soon as it did so, Herrara and Ryan both hurried to the side of Terence.

"My dear Terence," Ryan said, dropping on his knees beside him, "this is terrible. When I heard the news I was almost beside myself. As to the men, terrible as their loss is, they talk of no one but you."

"I think I shall pull through all right, Ryan. At any rate, the doctor says he thinks I shall, and I think so myself. I am heartily glad that you and Herrara have gone through it all right. What are our losses?"

"I don't know, yet. We have not had time to count, but not far from half our number. Macwitty is killed, Bull desperately wounded. Fully half the company officers are killed."

"That is terrible indeed, Ryan. Poor fellows! Poor fellows!

"Well, I should say, Herrara, that if you get no orders to join in the pursuit, you had best get all the wounded collected and brought here, and let the regiment light fires and bivouac. There is no chance of getting medical assistance, outside the regiment, tonight. Of course, all the British surgeons will have their hands full with their own men. Still, I only suggest this, for of course you are now in command."

The wounded had all fallen within a comparatively short distance, and many were able to walk in. The rest were carried, each in a blanket, with four men at the corners. Under Ryan's directions, the unwounded scattered over the hillside and soon brought back a large supply of bushes and faggots. A number of fires were lighted, and the four surviving medical students, and one older surgeon, at once began the work of attending the wounded; taking the more serious cases first, leaving the less important ones to be bandaged by their comrades. Many wounded men from other regiments, attracted by the light of the fires, came up; and these, too, received what aid the Portuguese could give them.

The next morning Terence was carried down, at daybreak, on a stretcher to Salamanca; where the town was in a state of the wildest excitement over the victory. As they entered the gates, an officer asked the bearers:

"Who is it?"

"Colonel O'Connor, of the Minho regiment."

The officer knew Terence personally.

"I am sorry, indeed, to see you here, O'Connor. Not very serious, I hope?"

"A leg cut clean off above the knee, with the fragment of a shell, Percival; but I fancy that I am going to get over it."

"Carry him to the convent of Saint Bernard," the officer said, to the Portuguese captain who was in command of the party, which consisted of 400 men carrying 100 wounded. "All officers are to be taken there, the others to the San Martin convent.

"I will look in and see you as soon as I can, O'Connor; and hope to find you going on well."

But few wounded officers had as yet been brought in and, as soon as Terence was carried into a ward, two of the staff surgeons examined his wound.

"You are doing wonderfully well, colonel," the senior officer said. "You must have received good surgical attention, immediately on being wounded. Judging by your pulse, you can have lost but little blood."

"It hardly bled at all, Doctor, and I had it bandaged up by two of my own men. I have seen a good many serious wounds, in the course of the last four years; and know pretty well what ought to be done."

"It has been uncommonly well done, anyhow. I think we had better not disturb the bandages, for a few days. If no bleeding sets in by that time, clots of blood will have formed, and you will be comparatively safe.

"Your pulse is very quiet. Your men must have carried you down very carefully."

"If I had been a basket of eggs, they could not have taken more care of me. I was scarcely conscious of any movement."

"Well, you have youth and good health and good spirits in your favour. If all our patients took things as cheerfully as you do, there would not be so many of them slip through our hands."

Bull, who had been brought in immediately after Terence, was next attended to. He was unconscious. He had been struck by a round shot in the shoulder, which had not only smashed the bone, but almost carried away the upper part of the arm.

"An ugly wound," the surgeon said to his colleague. "At any rate, we may as well take off the arm while he is unconscious. It will save him a second shock, and we can better bandage the wound when it is removed."

A low moan was the only sign that the wounded man had any consciousness that the operation was being performed.

"Will he get over it, Doctor?" Terence asked, when the surgeon had finished.

"There is just a chance, but it is a faint one. Has he been a sober man?"

"Very; I can answer for the last four years, at any rate. All the Portuguese officers were abstemious men; and I think that Bull felt that it would not do for him, commanding a battalion, to be less sober than they were."

"That increases his chance. Men who drink have everything against them when they get a severe wound; but he has lost a great deal of blood, and the shock has, of course, been a terrible one."

An orderly was told to administer a few spoonfuls of brandy and water, and the surgeon then moved on to the next bed.



Chapter 21: Home Again.

The next morning, one of the surgeons brought a basketful of fruit to Terence.

"There is a young woman outside, colonel," he said, with a slight smile, "who was crying so bitterly that I was really obliged to bring this fruit up to you. She said you would know who she was, and was heartbroken that she could not be allowed to come up to nurse you. She said that she had heard, from one of your men, of your wound. I told her that it was quite impossible that any civilian should enter the hospital, but said that I would take her fruit up and, if she would come every day at five o'clock in the afternoon, when we went off duty for an hour, I would tell her how you were going on."

"She used to sell fruit to the prisoners here," Terence said, "and it was entirely by her aid that I effected my escape, last year; and she got a muleteer, to whom she is engaged, to take me down from here to Cadiz. I bought her a present when we entered the town and, the other day, told her I hoped to dance at her wedding before long. However, that engagement will not come off. My dancing days are over."

The surgeon felt his pulse.

"There is very little fever," he said. "So far you are going on marvellously; but you must not be disappointed if you get a sharp turn, presently. You can hardly expect to get through a wound like this without having a touch, and perhaps a severe one, of fever."

"Is there any harm in my eating fruit?"

"I would not eat any, but you can drink some of the juice, mixed with water. I hope we shall have everything comfortable by tonight; of course, we are all in the rough, at present. Although many of the doctors of the town have been helping us, I don't think there is one medical officer in the army who has taken off his coat since the wounded began to come in, yesterday morning."

That night Terence's wound became very painful. Inflammation, accompanied of course with fever, set in and, for a fortnight, he was very ill. At the end of that time matters began to mend, and the wound soon assumed a healthy appearance. An operation had been performed, and the projecting bone cut off.

There were dire sufferings in Salamanca. Six thousand wounded had to be cared for, the French prisoners and their guards fed; and the army had no organization to meet so great a strain. Numbers of lives that might have been saved, by care and proper attention, were lost; and the spirit of discontent and insubordination, which had its origin in the excesses committed in the sack of the fortresses, rapidly increased.

The news from the front, after a time, seemed more satisfactory. Clausel had been hotly pursued. Had the king with his army joined him, as he might have done, he would have been in a position to again attack the enemy with greatly superior numbers; but Joseph hesitated, and delayed until it was no longer possible. The British army crossed the mountains, and the king was obliged to retire from Madrid and evacuate the capital; which was entered by Wellington on the 25th of August.

Early in September, the chief surgeon said to Terence:

"There is a convoy of sick going down, at the end of the week. I think that it would be best for you to go with them. In the first place, the air of this town is not favourable for recoveries. In some of the hospitals a large number of men have been carried off by the fever, which so often breaks out when the conditions are bad. In the next place, I am privately informed, by the governor, that he has received orders from the general to send all who are capable of bearing the journey across the frontier, as soon as possible. Another battle may be fought, at any moment. The reinforcements that have come from England are nothing like sufficient to replace the gaps in the army.

"The French generals are collecting their forces, and it is certain that Wellington will not be able to withstand their combination and, if he should be compelled to retreat, it is all important that he should not be hampered by the necessity of carrying off huge convoys of wounded. The difficulties of transport are already enormous; and it is, therefore, for many reasons desirable that all who are sufficiently convalescent to march, and all for whom transport can be provided, should start without delay."

"I should be very glad, Doctor. I have not seemed to gain strength, for the last week or ten days; but I believe that, if I were in the open air, I should gain ground rapidly."

Nita had been allowed to come up several times to see Terence, since his convalescence began; and the last time she had called had told him that Garcia had returned, being altogether dissatisfied with the feeble proceedings of the guerilla chief. She came up that afternoon, soon after the doctor left, and he told her the news that he had received. The next day she told Terence that Garcia had arranged with her father for his waggon and two bullocks, and that he himself would drive it to Lisbon, if necessary.

"They are fine bullocks, sir," she said, "and there is no fear of their breaking down. Last night I was talking to one of your sergeants, who comes to me every day for news of you. He says that he and about forty of your men are going down with the convoy. All are able to walk. It is so difficult to get carts that only officers who cannot walk are to be taken, this time."

"It is very good of Garcia and your father, Nita, but I should manage just as well as the others."

"That may be, senor, but it is better to have a friend with you who knows the country. There may be difficulty in getting provisions, and they say that there is a good deal of plundering along the roads; for troops that have lately come up have behaved so badly that the peasants declare they will have revenge, and treat them as enemies if they have the opportunity. Altogether, it is as well to have a friend with you."

Terence told the surgeon next morning what had been arranged, and said:

"So we shall have room for one more, Doctor. Is Major Bull well enough to go with me? He could travel in my waggon, which is sure to be large enough for two to lie in, comfortably."

"Certainly he can. He is making a slow recovery, and I should be glad to send him away, only I have no room for him. If he goes with you, I can send another officer down, also, in the place you would have had."

Accordingly, on the Saturday morning the convoy started. Bull and Terence met for the first time, since the day of the battle; as the former had been removed to another room, after the operation. He was extremely weak, still, and had to be carried down and placed in the waggon by the side of Terence. Garcia had been greatly affected at the latter's appearance.

"I should scarce have known you again, senor."

"I am pulled down a bit, Garcia, but by the time we get to our journey's end, you will see that I shall be a very different man. How comfortable you have made the waggon!"

"I have done what I could, senor. At the bottom are six sacks of corn, for it may be that forage will run short. Then I have filled it with hay, and there are enough rugs to lie on, and to cover you well over at night; and down among the sacks is a good-sized box with some good wine, two hams of Nita's father's curing, and a stock of sausages, and other things for the journey."

Nita came to say goodbye, and wept unrestrainedly at the parting. She and Garcia had opened the little box, and found in it fifty sovereigns; and had agreed to be married, as soon as Garcia returned from his journey. As the train of thirty waggons—of which ten contained provisions for use on the road—issued from the gates, they were joined by the convalescents, four hundred in number. All able to do so carried their arms, the muskets of the remainder being placed on the provision waggons.

"Have you heard from the regiment, Bull?" Terence asked, after they had talked over their time in hospital, and their comrades who had fallen.

"No, sir. There is no one I should expect to write to me."

"I had a letter from Ryan, yesterday," Terence said. "He tells me that they have had no fighting since we left. They form only one battalion now, and he says the state of things in Madrid is dreadful. The people are dying of hunger, and the British officers have subscribed and started soup kitchens; and that he, with the other Portuguese regiments, were to march the next day, with three British divisions and the cavalry, to join General Clinton, who was falling back before Clausel."

"'We all miss you horribly, Terence. Herrara does his best, but he has not the influence over the men that you had. If we have to fall back into Portugal again, which seems to me quite possible, for little more than 20,000 men are fit to carry arms, I fancy that there won't be a great many left round the colours by the spring.

"'Upon my word, I can hardly blame them, Terence. More than half of those who originally joined have fallen and, no doubt, the poor fellows think that they have done more than their share towards defending their country.'"

By very short marches, the convoy made its way to the frontier. The British convalescents remained at Guarda, the Portuguese marched for Pinhel, and the carts with the wounded officers continued their journey to Lisbon. The distance travelled had been over two hundred and fifty miles and, including halts, they had taken five weeks to perform it. Terence gained strength greatly during the journey, and Bull had so far recovered that he was able to get out and walk, sometimes, by the side of the waggon.

Garcia had been indefatigable in his efforts for their comfort. Every day he formed an arbour over their waggon, with freshly-cut boughs brought in by the soldiers of the regiment; and this kept off the rays of the sun, and the flies. At the villages at which they stopped, most of the wounded were accommodated in the houses; but Terence and Bull preferred to sleep in the waggon, the hay being always freshly shaken out for them, in the evening. The supplies they carried were most useful in eking out the rations, and Garcia proved himself an excellent cook. Altogether, the journey had been a pleasant one.

On arriving at Lisbon, they were taken to the principal hospital. Here the few who would be fit for service again were admitted, while the rest were ordered to be taken down, at once, to a hospital transport lying in the river. At the landing place they said goodbye to Garcia, who refused firmly any remuneration for his services, or for the hire of the waggon; and then Terence was lifted into a boat and, with several other wounded, was taken on board the transport.

The surgeon came at once to examine him.

"Do you wish to be taken below, colonel?" he asked Terence.

"Certainly not," Terence said. "I can sit up here, and can enjoy myself as much as ever I could; and the air from the sea will do more for me than any tonics you can give me, Doctor."

He was placed in a comfortable deck chair, and Bull had another beside him. There were many officers already on board, and Terence presently perceived, in one who was stumping about on a wooden leg, a figure he recognized. He was passing on without recognition, when Terence exclaimed:

"Why, O'Grady, is it yourself?"

"Terence O'Connor, by the powers!" O'Grady shouted. "Sure, I didn't know you at first. It is meself, true enough, or what there is left of me. It is glad I am to see you, though in a poor plight. The news came to me that you had lost a leg. There was, at first, no one in the hospital knew where you were, and I was not able to move about, meself, to make inquiries; and when I found out, before I came away, they said you were very bad, and that even if I could get to you—which I could not, for I had not been fitted with a new leg, then—I should not be able to see you.

"It is just like my luck. I was hit by one of the first shots fired, and lost all the fun of the fight."

"Where were you hit, O'Grady?"

"Right in the shin. Faith, I went down so sudden that I thought I had trod in a hole; and I was making a scramble to get up again, when young Dawson said:

"'Lie still, O'Grady, they have shot the foot off ye.'

"And so they had, and divil a bit could I find where it had gone to. As I was about the first man hit, they carried me off the field at once, and put me in a waggon and, as soon as it was full, I was taken down to Salamanca. I only stopped there three weeks, and I have been here now more than two months, and my leg is all right again. But I am a lop-sided creature, though it is lucky that it is my left arm and leg that have gone. I was always a good hopper, when I was a boy; so that, if this wooden thing breaks, I think I should be able to get about pretty well."

"This is Major Bull, O'Grady. Don't you know him?"

"Faith, I did not know him; but now you tell me who it is, I recognize him. How are you, major?"

"I am getting on, Captain O'Grady."

"Major," O'Grady corrected. "I got my step at Salamanca; both our majors were killed. So I shall get a dacent pension: a major's pension, and so much for a leg and arm. That is not so bad, you know."

"Well, I have no reason to grumble," Bull said. "If I had been with my old regiment and got this hurt, a shilling a day would have been the outside. Now I shall get lieutenant's pension, and so much for my arm and shoulder."

"I have no doubt you will get another step, Bull. After the way the regiment suffered, and with poor Macwitty killed, and you and I both badly wounded, they are sure to give you your step," and indeed when, on their arrival, they saw the Gazette, they found that both had been promoted.

"I suppose it is all for the best," O'Grady said. "At any rate, I shall be able to drink dacent whisky for the rest of me life, and not have to be fretting meself with Spanish spirit; though I don't say there was no virtue in it, when you couldn't get anything better."

Three days later, the vessel sailed for England. At Plymouth Terence, O'Grady, and several other of the Irish officers left her; Bull promising Terence that, when he was quite restored to health, he would come and pay him a visit.

Terence and his companion sailed the next day for Dublin. O'Grady had no relations whom he was particularly anxious to see and therefore, at Terence's earnest invitation, he took a place with him in a coach—to leave in three days, as both had to buy civilian clothes, and to report themselves at headquarters.

"What are you going to do about a leg, Terence?"

"I can do nothing, at present. My stump is a great deal too tender, still, for me to bear anything of that sort. But I will buy a pair of crutches."

This was, indeed, the first thing done on landing, Terence finding it inconvenient in the extreme to have to be carried whenever he wanted to move, even a few yards. He had written home two or three times from the hospital, telling them how he was getting on; for he knew that when his name appeared among the list of dangerously wounded, his father and cousin would be in a state of great anxiety until they received news of him; and as soon as they had taken their places in the coach he dropped them a line, saying when they might expect him.

They had met with contrary winds on their voyage home, but the three weeks at sea had done great things for Terence and, except for the pinned-up trousers leg, he looked almost himself again.

"Be jabers, Terence," O'Grady said, as the coach drove into Athlone, "one might think that it was only yesterday that we went away. There are the old shops, and the same people standing at their doors to see the coach come in; and I think I could swear even to that cock, standing at the gate leading into the stables. What games we had here. Who would have thought that, when we came back, you would be my senior officer!"

When fifteen miles beyond Athlone there was a hail, and the coach suddenly stopped. O'Grady looked out of the window.

"It's your father, Terence, and the prettiest girl I have seen since we left the ould country."

He opened the door and got out.

"Hooroo, major! Here we are, safe and sound. We didn't expect to meet you for another eight miles."

Major O'Connor was hurrying to the door, but the girl was there before him.

"Welcome home, Terence! Welcome home!" she exclaimed, smiling through her tears, as she leaned into the coach and held out both her hands to him, and then drew aside to make room for his father.

"Welcome home, Terence!" the latter said, as he wrung his hand. "I did not think it would have been like this, but it might have been worse."

"A great deal worse, father. Now, will you and the guard help me out? This is the most difficult business I have to do."

It was with some difficulty he was got out of the coach. As soon as he had steadied himself on his crutches, Mary came up again, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him.

"We are cousins, you know, Terence," she said, "and as your arms are occupied, I have to take the initiative."

She was half laughing and half crying.

The guard hurried to get the portmanteaus out of the boot. As soon as he had placed them in the road he shouted to the coachman, and climbed up on to his post as the vehicle drove on; the passengers on the roof giving hearty cheers for the two disabled officers. By this time, the major was heartily shaking hands with O'Grady.

"I saw in the Gazette that you were hit again, O'Grady."

"Yes. I left one little memento of meself in Portugal, and it was only right that I should lave another in Spain. It has been worrying me a good deal, because I should have liked to have brought them home to be buried in the same grave with me, so as to have everything handy together. How they are ever to be collected when the time comes bothers me entirely, when I can't even point out where they are to be found."

"You have not lost your good spirits anyhow, O'Grady."

"I never shall, I hope, O'Connor; and even if I had been inclined to, Terence would have brought them back again."

As they stood chatting, a manservant had placed the portmanteaus on the box of a pretty open carriage, drawn by two horses.

"This is our state carriage, Terence, though we don't use it very often for, when I go about by myself, I ride. Mary has a pony carriage, and drives herself about.

"You remember Pat Cassidy, don't you?"

"Of course I do, now I look at him," Terence said. "It's your old soldier servant," and he shook hands with the man. "He did not come home with you, did he, father?"

"No, he was badly wounded at Talavera, and invalided home. They thought that he would not be fit for service again, and so discharged him; and he found his way here, and glad enough I was to have him."

Aided by his father and O'Grady, Terence took his place in the carriage. His father seated himself by his side, while Mary and O'Grady had the opposite seat.

"There is one advantage in losing legs," O'Grady said. "We can stow away much more comfortably in a carriage. Is this the nearest point to your place?"

"Yes. It is four miles nearer than Ballyhovey, so we thought that we might as well meet you here, and more comfortably than meeting you in the town. It was Mary's suggestion. I think she would not have liked to have kissed Terence in the public street."

"Nonsense, uncle!" Mary said indignantly. "Of course I should have kissed him, anywhere. Are we not cousins? And didn't he save me from being shut up in a nunnery, all my life?"

"All right, Mary, it is quite right that you should kiss him; still, I should say that it was pleasanter to do so when you had not a couple of score of loafers looking on, who would not know that he was your cousin, and had saved you from a convent."

"You are looking well, father," Terence said, to turn the conversation.

"Never was better in my life, lad, except that I am obliged to be careful with my leg; but after all, it may be that, though it seemed hard to me at the time, it is as well that I left the regiment when I did. Quite half the officers have been killed, since then. Vimiera accounted for some of them. Major Harrison went there, and gave me my step. Talavera made several more vacancies, and Salamanca cost us ten officers, including poor O'Driscoll. I am lucky to have come off as well as I did. It did not seem a very cheerful lookout, at first; but since this young woman arrived, and took possession of me, I am as happy and contented as a man can be."

"I deny altogether having taken possession of you, uncle. I let you have your way very much, and only interfere for your own good."

"You will have another patient to look after now, dear, and to fuss over."

"I will do my best," she said softly, leaning forward and putting her hand on that of Terence. "I know that it will be terribly dull for you, at first—after being constantly on the move for the last five years, and always full of excitement and adventure—to have to keep quiet and do nothing."

"I shall get on very well," he said. "Just as first, of course, I shall not be able to get about very much, but I shall soon learn to use my crutches; and I hope, before very long, to get a leg of some sort; and I don't see why I should not be able to ride again, after a bit. If I cannot do it any other way, I must take to a side saddle. I can have a leg made specially for riding, with a crook at the knee."

Mary laughed, while the tears came in her eyes.

"Why, bless me, Mary," he went on, "the loss of a leg is nothing, when you are accustomed to it. I shall be able, as I have said, to ride, drive, shoot, fish, and all sorts of things. The only thing that I shall be cut off from, as far as I can see, is dancing; but as I have never had a chance of dancing, since the last ball the regiment gave at Athlone, the loss will not be a very grievous one.

"Look at O'Grady. There he is, much worse off than I am, as he has no one to make any particular fuss about him. He is getting on capitally and, indeed, stumped about the deck so much, coming home, that the captain begged him to have a pad of leather put on to the bottom of his leg, to save the decks. O'Grady is a philosopher, and I shall try to follow his example."

"Why should one bother oneself, Miss O'Connor, when bothering won't help? When the war is over, I shall buy Tim Doolan, my soldier servant, out. He is a vile, drunken villain; but I understand him, and he understands me, and he blubbered so, when he carried me off the field, that I had to promise him that, if a French bullet did not carry him off, I would send for him when the war was over.

"'You know you can't do without me, yer honour,' the scoundrel said.

"'I can do better without you than with you, Tim,' says I. 'Ye are always getting me into trouble, with your drunken ways. Ye would have been flogged a dozen times, if I hadn't screened you. Take up your musket and join your regiment. You rascal, you are smelling of drink now, and divil a drop, except water, is there in me flask.'

"'I did it for your own good,' says he. 'Ye know that spirits always heats your blood, and water would be the best for you, when the fighting began; so I just sacrificed meself.

"'"For," says I to meself, "if ye get fighting a little wild, Tim, it don't matter a bit; but the captain will have to keep cool, so it is best that you should drink up the spirits, and fill the flask up with water to quench his thirst."'

"'Be off, ye black villain,' I said, 'or I will strike you.'

"'You will never be able to do without me, Captain,' says he, picking up his musket; and with that he trudged away and, for aught I know, he never came out of the battle alive."

The others laughed.

"They were always quarrelling, Mary," Terence said. "But I agree with Tim that his master will find it very hard to do without him, especially about one o'clock in the morning."

"I am ashamed of you, Terence," O'Grady said, earnestly; "taking away me character, when I have come down here as your guest."

"It is too bad, O'Grady," Major O'Connor said, "but you know Terence was always conspicuous for his want of respect towards his elders."

"He was that same, O'Connor. I did me best for the boy, but there are some on whom education and example are clean thrown away."

"You are looking pale, cousin Terence," Mary said.

"Am I? My leg is hurting me a bit. Ireland is a great country, but its by-roads are not the best in the world, and this jolting shakes me up a bit."

"How stupid I was not to think of it!" she said and, rising in her seat, told Cassidy to drive at a walk.

They were now only half a mile from the house.

"You will hardly know the old place again, Terence," his father said.

"And a very good thing too, father, for a more tumble-down old shanty I never was in."

"It was the abode of our race, Terence."

"Well, then, it says mighty little for our race, father."

"Ah! But it did not fall into the state you saw it in till my father died, a year after I got my commission."

"I won't blame them, then; but, at any rate, I am glad I am coming home to a house and not to a ruin.

"Ah, that is more like a home!" he said, as a turn of the road brought them in sight of the building. "You have done wonders, Mary. That is a house fit for any Irish gentleman to live in."

"It has been altered so that it can be added to, Terence; but, at any rate, it is comfortable. As it was before, it made one feel rheumatic to look at it."

On arriving at the house, Terence refused all assistance.

"I am going to be independent, as far as I can," he said and, slipping down from the seat into the bottom of the chaise, he was able to put his foot on to the ground and, by the aid of his crutches, to get out and enter the house unaided.

"That is the old parlour, I think," he said, glancing into one of the rooms.

"Yes. It is your father's snuggery, now. There is scarcely any alteration there, and he can mess about as he likes with his guns and fishing tackle and swords.

"This is the dining room, now."

And she led the way along a wide passage to the new part of the house, where a bright fire was blazing in a handsome and well-furnished room. An invalid's chair had been placed by the fire, and opposite it was a large, cosy armchair.

"That is for your use, Major O'Grady," she said. "Now, Terence, you are to lay yourself up in that chair. I will bring a small table to your side, and put your dinner there."

"I will lie down until the dinner is ready, Mary. But I am perfectly capable of sitting at the table. I did so the last week before leaving the ship."

"You shall do that tomorrow. You may say what you like, but I can see that you are very tired and, for today, you will take it easy. I am going to be your nurse, and I can assure you that you will have to obey orders. You have been in independent command quite long enough."

"It is of no use, Terence; you must do as you are told," his father said. "The only way to get on with this young woman is to let her have her own way. I have given up opposing her, long ago; and you will have to do the same."

Terence did not find it unpleasant to be nursed and looked after, and even to obey peremptory orders.

A month later, Mary came into the room quietly, one afternoon, when he was sitting and looking into the fire; as his father and O'Grady had driven over to Killnally. Absorbed in his own thoughts, he did not hear her enter.

Thinking that he was asleep, she paused at the door. A moment later she heard a deep sigh. She came forward at once.

"What are you sighing about, Terence? Your leg is not hurting you, is it?"

"No, dear, it has pretty well given up hurting me."

"What were you sighing about, then?"

He was silent for a minute, and then said:

"Well you see, one cannot help sighing a little at the thought that one is laid up, a useless man, when one is scarce twenty-one."

"You have done your work, Terence. You have made a name for yourself, when others are just leaving college and thinking of choosing a profession. You have done more, in five years, than most men achieve in all their lifetime.

"This is the first time I have heard you grumble. I know it is hard, but what has specially upset you, today?"

"I suppose I am a little out of sorts," he said. "I was thinking, perhaps, how different it might have been, if it hadn't been for that unlucky shell."

"You mean that you might have gone on to Burgos, and fallen in the assault there; or shared in that dreadful retreat to the frontier again."

"No. I was not thinking of Spain, nor even of the army. I was thinking of here."

"But you said, over and over again, Terence, that you will be able to ride, and drive, and get about like other people, in time."

"Yes, dear. In many respects it will be the same, but not in one respect."

Then he broke off.

"I am an ungrateful brute. I have everything to make me happy—a comfortable home, a good father, and a dear little sister to nurse me."

"What did I tell you, sir," she said, after a pause, "when I said goodbye to you at Coimbra? That I would rather be your cousin. You were quite hurt, and I said that you were a silly boy, and would understand better, some day."

"I have understood, since," he said, "and was glad that you were not my sister; but now, you see, things have altogether changed, and I must be content with sistership."

The girl looked in the fire, and then said, in a low voice:

"Why, Terence?"

"You know why," he said. "I have had no one to think of but you, for the last four years. Your letters were the great pleasures of my life. I thought over and over again of those last words of yours, and I had some hope that, when I came back, I might say to you:

"'Dear Mary, I am grateful, indeed, that you are my cousin, and not my sister. A sister is a very dear relation, but there is one dearer still.'

"Don't be afraid, dear; I am not going to say so now. Of course, that is over, and I hope that I shall come, in time, to be content to think of you as a sister."

"You are very foolish, Terence," she said, almost with a laugh, "as foolish as you were at Coimbra. Do you think that I should have said what I did, then, if I had not meant it? Did you not save me, at the risk of your life, from what would have been worse than death? Have you not been my hero, ever since? Have you not been the centre of our thoughts here, the great topic of our conversation? Have not your father and I been as proud as peacocks, when we read of your rapid promotion, and the notices of your gallant conduct? And do you think that it would make any difference to me, if you had come back with both your legs and arms shot off?

"No, dear. I am just as dissatisfied with the relationship you propose as I was three years ago, and it must be either cousin or—" and she stopped.

She was standing up beside him, now.

"Or wife," he said, taking up her hand. "Is it possible you mean wife?"

Her face was a sufficient answer, and he drew her down to him.

"You silly boy!" she said, five minutes afterwards. "Of course, I thought of it all along. I never made any secret of it to your father. I told him that our escape was like a fairy tale, and that it must have the same ending: 'and they married, and lived happy ever after.' He would never have let me have my way with the house, had I not confided in him. He said that I could spend my money as I pleased, on myself, but that not one penny should be laid out on his house; and I was obliged to tell him.

"I am afraid I blushed furiously, as I did so, but I had to say:

"'Don't you see, Uncle?'—of course, I always called him uncle, from the first, though he is only a cousin—'I have quite made up my mind that it will be my house, some day; and the money may just as well be laid out on it now, to make it comfortable; instead of waiting till that time comes.'"

"What did my father say?"

"Oh, he said all sorts of nonsense, just the sort of thing that you Irishmen always do say! That he had hoped, perhaps, it might be so, from the moment he got your letter; and that the moment he saw me he felt sure that it would be so, for it must be, if you had any eyes in your head."

When Major O'Connor came home he was greatly pleased, but he took the news as a matter of course.

"Faith," he said, "I would have disinherited the boy, if he had been such a fool as not to appreciate you, Mary."

O'Grady was loud in his congratulations.

"It is just like your luck, Terence," he said. "Luck is everything. Here am I, a battered hero, who has lost an arm and a foot in the service of me country, and divil a girl has thrown herself upon me neck. Here are you, a mere gossoon, fifteen years my junior in the service, mentioned a score of times in despatches, promoted over my head; and now you have won one of the prettiest creatures in Ireland and, what is a good deal more to the point, though you may not think of it at present, with a handsome fortune of her own. In faith, there is no understanding the ways of Providence."

A week afterwards the whole party went up to Dublin, as Terence and O'Grady had to go before a medical board. A fortnight later a notice appeared, in the Gazette, that Lieutenant Colonel Terence O'Connor had retired from the service, on half pay, with the rank of colonel.

The marriage did not take place for another six months, by which time Terence had thrown away his crutches and had taken to an artificial leg—so well constructed that, were it not for a certain stiffness in his walk, his loss would not have been suspected by a casual observer. For three months previous to the event, a number of men had been employed in building a small but pretty house, some quarter of a mile from the mansion, intended for the occupation of Majors O'Connor and O'Grady.

"It will be better, in every way, Terence," his father insisted, when his son and Mary remonstrated against their thus proposing to leave them. "O'Grady and I have been comrades for twenty years, and we shall feel more at home, in bachelor quarters, than here. I can run in three or four times a day, if I like, and I expect I shall be as much here as over there; whereas if I lived here, I should often be feeling myself in the way, though I know that you would never say so. It is better for young people to be together and, maybe some day, the house will be none too large for you."

The house was finished by the time the wedding took place, and the two officers moved into it. The wedding was attended by all the tenants, and half the country round; and it was agreed that the bride's jewels were the most magnificent that had ever been seen in that part of Ireland, though some objected that diamonds, alone, would have been more suitable for the occasion than the emeralds.

Terence, on his return, had heard from his father that his Uncle, Tim M'Manus, had called very soon after the major had returned to his old home. He had been very friendly, and had been evidently mollified by Terence's name appearing in general orders; but his opinion that he would end his career by a rope had been in no way shaken. He had, however, continued to pay occasional visits; and the rapid rise of the scapegrace, and his frequent mention in despatches, were evidently a source of much gratification to him; and it was not long after his return that his uncle again came over.

"We will let bygones be bygones, Terence," he said, as he shook hands with him. "You have turned out a credit to your mother's name, and I am proud of you; and I hold my head high when I say Colonel Terence O'Connor, who was always playing mischief with the French, is my great nephew, and the good M'Manus blood shines out clearly in him."

There was no one who played a more conspicuous part at the wedding than Uncle Tim. At his own request, he proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom.

"I take no small credit to myself," he said, "that Colonel Terence O'Connor is the hero of this occasion. Never was there a boy whose destiny was so marked as his, and it is many a time I predicted that it was not either by flood, or fire, or quietly in his bed that he would die. If, when the regiment was ordered abroad, I had offered him a home, I firmly believe that my prediction would be verified before now; but I closed my doors to him, and the consequence was that he expended his devilment upon the French; and it is a deal better for him that it is only a leg that he has lost, which is a much less serious matter than having his neck unduly stretched. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, I can say with pride that I have had no small share in this matter, and it is glad I am that, when I go, I can leave my money behind me, feeling that it won't all go to the dogs before I have been twelve months in my grave."

THE END