It was a fearful risk--the wooden beams were blazing fiercely, smoke and even flame burst out of the upper windows now and then; one end of the building already tottered under the fiery storm, but the woman's shriek sounded louder in my brave friend's ear than the roar of the furious flame. His stout English heart was a ready prompter. In a moment he seized a ladder, placed it against an open window, ran up rapidly, and plunged into the smoke and flame, while a cheer of admiration burst from the crowd below. There was a minute of terrible suspense; he was seeking the lost child in vain. Again he rushes to the window, half-suffocated with the smoke--"Where was the child?" he cried; "I cannot find it." My heart sank within me as I thought of the mother's despair; but she seemed less desperate than before, and, running under the window, cried--"Sorra a child I have at all, your honour; but since you _are_ up there, will you just throw me down the bit of a mattrass that's in the corner, for it's all I have in the world." My friend sprang out of the window and slipped down the ladder. He was just in time; the next moment, with a tremendous crash, the main props gave way, and the whole, building fell into a heap of blazing ruins. Now I only tell you this long story, to show what quaint, wild creatures where those Irish that General Evans took with him to Spain. In the room next to mine a young Spanish cadet, belonging to the 2d light infantry, was billeted. He was about fourteen years of age, the son of a grandee of Spain. As his family was great and powerful, it was only necessary for him to go through the form of joining the army on service, when a commission in the royal guard would be given him. We soon made acquaintance. He was amused by my odd attempts to speak Spanish, and I was charmed with him. He was a rarely beautiful boy; his, regular features, long curling hair, small hands and feet, would have given him the appearance of effeminacy, but for the vigorous activity of his movements, and his bright bold eye. The best blood of Old Castile flowed in his veins and mantled in his cheek. The little cadet was most dainty in his dress; his uniform was the smartest, his plume the gayest, his boots the brightest, his gold lace the freshest in his regiment. His cap, epaulettes, and sword made expressly for him very small and light, in proportion to his size; and a beautiful black Andalusian pony to match, completed his equipments.