The greatest part of the day had passed over without any event taking place between the advanced posts; some slight skirmishing between the enemy’s lancers and D‘Urban’s cavalry left matters as they were at the commencement. The army was preparing its arrangements for the night’s repose and the march of the following day, when the thunder of Macdonald’s artillery aroused us in an instant from our occupations. It was soon manifest that the enemy’s advance had attacked the Portuguese cavalry; and the vast cloud of dust that came rolling onward towards the village, where the German horse were placed in reserve, told but too plainly that the Portuguese were routed, and the Germans about to be cut off. The infantry betook themselves to their arms, and in a few moments the entire were in readiness to march to the scene of action—for so in fact it was. The Portuguese dragoons fled at the first onset, without waiting to exchange one sabre-cut with the French; and so rapid was their flight—for they rode through the village where the reserve of Germans were posted to support them—that not more than half of the Germans were mounted. Many men thus fell before they could defend themselves, and their Colonel was cut down while in the act of shaving himself; but his brave soldiers, forming themselves together in the best manner the time would admit of, closed with drawn sabres upon the French lancers, which turned the stream, broke the mad fury of the attack, and drove back the lancers in confusion. Up to this time the combat was one scene of desperation. An irregular and furious crowd might be seen mixed together, fighting without order or regularity, and from the confusion that prevailed it was not possible to see distinctly to which side the victory belonged; but at a distance, far from the scene of action, the burnished helmets of the Portuguese troopers were distinguishable as they fled from the post they had deserted, and from their brave companions, the Germans, whom they left to be massacred. The din of arms, the clashing of swords, and the thunder of the cannon, mingled with shouts from every side, completed the confusion. In the hurry of the moment some tents belonging to the 74th Regiment took fire, the flames soon communicated with those of the next regiment, and the camp was enveloped with smoke; but this was soon overcome; and by the time we approached near the point in dispute, the French cavalry had been driven off the field, but not before many of the Germans had fallen. Two guns of Macdonald’s brigade had also been taken; and upon the whole, it was one of the most disgraceful and unlooked-for events that had taken place during the campaign. To be beaten at any time was bad enough, but to be beaten by a handful of lancers, on the eve of our entering Madrid, almost in view of the city, was worse than all. But what caused our defeat—our disgrace—under the eyes of the people of Madrid? The placing undue reliance on the Portuguese troops.