On the 15th we surprised their covering division while in the act of cooking near the village of Foz d'Aronce. They retreated in the greatest hurry, leaving several camp kettles full of meat behind them. As we approached the town, the road leading to it was covered with a number of horses, mules, and asses, all maimed; but the most disgusting sight was about fifty of the asses floundering in the mud, some with their throats half cut, while others were barbarously houghed or otherwise injured. What the object of this proceeding meant I never could guess; the poor brutes could have been of no use to us, or indeed any one else, as I believe they were unable to have travelled another league. The meagre appearance of these creatures, with their backbones and hips protruding through their hides, and their mangled and bleeding throats, produced a general feeling of disgust and commiseration. The village of Foz d'Aronce was warmly contested, and more than once taken and retaken. Night put a stop to this affair, in which we sustained a loss of about four hundred men. The enemy lost nearly a thousand _hors de combat_;[10] and, as usual, taking advantage of the night, got off, and continued their retreat upon Guarda, having destroyed the bridge on the river Ceira as they retired. ----- Footnote 10: These figures are very wild. The English lost 4 officers and 60 men, the French 456 killed and wounded only, according to the official accounts. ----- The army did not lose any officer of rank in the affair of Foz d'Aronce, but the service sustained a loss in Lieutenant Heppenstal—a young man who, had he lived, would have been an ornament to a profession for which Nature seemed to have destined him. He was known to be one of the bravest men in the army, but on this occasion his usual spirits deserted him. He moved along silent, inattentive, and abstracted—a brisk firing in our front soon roused all his wonted energy, and he advanced with his men apparently cheerful as ever; turning to a brother officer he said, “You will laugh at what I am going to say; you know I am not afraid to die, but I have a certain feeling that my race is nearly run.”—“You jest,” said his friend. “No, I don’t,” was his reply; they shook hands, the light troops advanced, and in a few minutes the brave Heppenstal was a corpse. His presentiment was too just, and though I had heard of instances of the kind before, this was the first that came under my immediate observation. I ran up to the spot where he lay; he was bleeding profusely; his breast was penetrated by two bullets, and a third passed through his forehead. His death was singular, and it appeared as if he was resolved to fulfil the destiny that he had marked out for himself. Our light troops were gradually retreating on their reinforcements, and were within a few paces of the columns of infantry; his men repeatedly called out to him to retire with the rest, but he,