"Whew!" exclaimed Dugdale. "And we’ve only a few thousand here at any rate. What’s the odds! an Englishman was always worth ten Frenchmen, and I don’t care if Boney comes with a million." "I admire your confidence and spirit, Mr. Dugdale," said Vaughan dryly. "Though I’m hanged if I know what we’re fighting Boney in Spain for," added Dugdale. "Not that that matters." "Indeed, but it matters a terrible deal," said Captain O’Hare earnestly. "We’ve crossed the mighty ocean—and mighty unpleasant it was, bedad!—to help a disthressed and downtrodden people; and sure ’tis we Irishmen can feel for the like o’ them." Dugdale, feeling out of his depth, was silent for a time while the conversation took a more serious tone, and turned on the chain of events which had led to the presence of the British army in Spain. It was fifteen years since a little Corsican officer of artillery, named Napoleon Bonaparte, had first drawn attention to himself by his clever work at the siege of Toulon. In that time he had made himself Emperor of the French and dictator of Europe, and become one of the greatest figures in universal history. His ambition was insatiable and hitherto his success had been stupendous. Within a few years he had subdued Austria, humbled Prussia, hoaxed Russia, and plundered Italy. Alone of the nations, England had checked his series of triumphs by her victories at the Nile and Trafalgar; but even in England his name was held by the more timorous in awe, and caricatures represented him as a voracious ogre who made his meals of little children. He longed to have England also at his feet—a longing only intensified by the success with which she had hitherto defied his efforts cripple her trade.