Jack had never been in Seville before. He was struck by the forest of masts from ships lining the river bank, by the whitewashed houses built in Moorish fashion, with barricaded windows, and the narrow, busy, cobbled streets. It was a fine clear day, and for almost the first time since he landed, four months before, at Mondego Bay, he felt the dry warmth of a southern climate. He found his way with Pepito along the river bank, past the bull ring, to a comfortable inn in the Plaza Nueva, and having there made himself as presentable as his worn and faded garments allowed, he set off for the Alcazar, where he had learnt that the British minister was then in conference with the Junta. He had some curiosity to meet Mr. Hookham Frere. It had been common talk in the army that Sir John Moore had received a number of almost insolent epistles from the minister, who had gone quite beyond his province in dictating the course of action which he thought the commander-in-chief should follow. Mr. Frere, indeed, was not cut out for the delicate work of an ambassador, and he was perhaps as little surprised as anybody when, two months later, he was recalled by the dissatisfied Government at home. He was no doubt worried by the mingled vacillation, braggadocio, and incompetence of the Spanish authorities with whom he had to deal, and in truth their behaviour was such as would have tried the temper of a more patient and self-assured man than Mr. Frere. He received Jack in a private room, and read the despatch in silence, save when the news of Sir John Moore’s death provoked an exclamation. He folded the paper and laid it down on the table before him. "Poor fellow!" he said. "He always said he hoped to die after a great victory. You knew him, sir?" "Yes, sir," said Jack. "I had the honour to serve under him through the campaign, and he was very kind to me." "Ah! I am afraid our relations were a little clouded of late. I acted for the best. I did some things I now regret; they were due partly to my lack of trustworthy information. And now, though we have won a victory, we have had to leave the country. The army might perhaps have sailed to Lisbon instead of returning home." "I beg pardon, sir, but if you saw the horrible state of our men you would be the last to say that. They’re worn out with illness and hard work, eaten with vermin, and have nothing but rags to cover themselves with. I came off better than most, and you see what a condition my uniform is in."