Then, changing both dance and tune, Jones stuck his arms a-kimbo like a Welsh milkwoman, and struck up an aboriginal air of the Principality, footing it heel and toe--words unintelligible. I approached. Jones, as usual, the instant he saw me, fell to self-defence. "Please, sir, I got up into the hayloft, sir: took 'em off, and mended 'em there, sir; 'cause I didn't want none of the fellers to see me a-tailoring, sir. That's why I did it, sir." "Well, put them on this instant, sir; it's disgraceful. Put them on, I tell you. Be quick." Jones, seeing I was resolute, presently gave tokens of compliance. "Don't let me find you in that state when I come back," said I. There was nothing now to wait for, save the absentees. About eleven o'clock, A.M., the dragoons returned. They had gone some distance down the lane, and found nothing. At length, one of them noticed, in the ditch, a trunk, which proved, on examination, to have been broken open and rifled. This they brought back with them; and it announced to us, in language but too intelligible, what had been the probable fate of the party missing.--The fact is, when Mr Chesterfield purchased a mule at St Jean de Luz, for the conveyance of his personal baggage, his servant had discarded the albarda or pack-saddle, determining to load in his own way. Hence, in fact, the loss of the party. The albarda, please to observe, is essential to the serviceableness of your mule. In appearance, no doubt, it is the awkwardest thing in the world. Imagine a hard straw mattress (for it comes nearer that than anything else,) fitted to the animal's back, and covering nearly the whole of it. "Quite absurd," you would say, "to oppress a beast of burden with such an extra load." But then this mattress answers a threefold purpose. First, it keeps the load from galling your mule's back: secondly, it cushions the packages, so that they do not shift: thirdly, and this perhaps is most important of all, it _distributes_ the weight, so that the burden presses equally. Now Mr Chesterfield's _personelle_ was stowed in large awkward black boxes, of the most approved London make, which hung over the mule's back by straps, and of course were continually getting wrong. The inconvenience of this outfit became apparent, ere we were clear of the town of St Jean de Luz. The mule got uneasy; the load shifted; something was continually requiring to be set right. Both mule and driver, horse and groom, soon fell into the rear: the groom blowing up the driver in English, which he didn't understand; the driver bothered with an arrangement, which he knew was all wrong. They came up when we halted, but soon fell behind again. The last time they were seen in the lane, which was just before it fell dark, they were come to a halt, and were all at sixes and sevens. Whether they were killed, or made prisoners, or escaped with the loss of the effects, we never heard or ascertained during the rest of our journey to headquarters.