The sanguinary nature of the Portuguese during the whole period of the war was notorious. When crossed or excited, nothing but the shedding of blood could allay their passion. It was always with the greatest difficulty that we could preserve our French prisoners from being butchered by them even in cold blood. They would hang upon the rear of a detachment with prisoners like so many carrion birds, waiting every opportunity to satiate their love of vengeance; and it required all the firmness and vigilance of our troops to keep them in check. It was well known that even our men fell in stepping between them and the French, whom they had marked out as victims. Indeed it was not unfrequent for our own men to suffer from the consequences of their ferocity, and I myself, while at Vallée, had a narrow escape. I had crossed the hills to purchase some necessaries at the quarters of the 52nd regiment, and on my return fell in with several of the soldiers of the 3rd Caçadores; one of them, a fierce-looking scoundrel, evinced a great inclination to quarrel, the more particularly as he perceived that I was unarmed and alone. Having replied rather sharply to some abuse they had cast upon the English, by reflecting on their countrymen in return, he flew into a rage, drew his bayonet, and made a rush at me, which I avoided by stepping aside, and tripping him head foremost on the ground; I was in the act of seizing his bayonet, when a number of his comrades came up, to whom he related, in exaggerated terms, the cause of our disagreement. Before he had half concluded, a general cry arose of “kill the English dog,” and the whole drawing their bayonets, were advancing upon me when a party of the 52nd came up, the tables were turned, and the Caçadores fled in all directions. Among other laughable circumstances that made the time pass gaily while we remained here, was a ghost story, in which Tom Crawley cut rather a conspicuous figure. We had accoutred ourselves, as was our custom before laying down for the night’s repose, when in rushed Tom Crawley like a distracted man. “Bring me some salt and water for the love of God, boys!” he immediately demanded; “I have seen a ghost.” “What sort of ghost, Crawley?” sung out a dozen voices from the men, who immediately became alive to the fun. “Oh, a Portuguese ghost, as sure as the Lord,” replied Crawley. “Give me a little water with some salt in it.”