In a few minutes the two officers were riding side by side over the battle-field, on which many grim tokens of the struggle lay scattered. Striking into the road that led from the village in a south-westerly direction, between olive groves and stone fences, they passed the hill of Santa Quiteria, where the Spanish centre, under San March and O’Neill, had been so cleverly outflanked by Maurice Mathieu, and arrived at length at Cascante, the extreme left of the Spanish position, where La Pena, with characteristic stupidity, had remained inactive throughout the fight. Then, retracing their course, they turned to the left, and rode past the spot where Colbert had held his cavalry until the pursuit began. Leaving Tudela on their right, they came within sight of the Cerro de Santa Barbara, where Roca had been so brilliantly outmanoeuvred by General Morlot. General Chabot had been so eager to obtain a comprehensive view of the whole scene of action that he had set a quick pace, which the colonel found rather discommoding to his rotundity. But he bore it all without a murmur, for he was deeply imbued with the importance of paying becoming deference to the higher powers. He was, however, somewhat blown and heated when he pulled up at a large house near the Ebro, commanding an excellent view of the Cerro de Santa Barbara and the country whence Morlot had delivered his attack. Round two sides of the house ran a veranda, the roof being supported by light pillars resting on a low balustrade. Beneath the veranda stood a group of Spanish officers. They had just marched in, and were awaiting the preparation of the interior of the building, which was being got ready for them. A sentry with fixed bayonet was stationed at the corner of the veranda, and a squad of some twenty men had piled arms in the open plaza beyond. An equal number of Frenchmen were inside the house. "A capital horse of yours, colonel!" said the general admiringly, as they reined up just outside the balustrade. "Mine is wheezing a little, you observe, while yours is hardly breathed." "It is an excellent beast indeed," panted De Ferussat, with a gratified smile. "I got it from a ridiculous old Spanish nobleman at Pamplona, months ago—at a low figure, I assure you; hi! hi! But look, monsieur le général, it was out there"—he pointed towards the Ebro—"that we first came in touch with these cowardly curs of Spaniards." He made no attempt to moderate his voice. Every word was clearly audible to the gaunt group in the veranda, and some of them looked with a glare of impotent rage at the ill-mannered officer. As if to obtain a clearer view of the field he edged his horse up to the balustrade, and continued his narrative. "There were about 50,000 of them, but we had at least half that number, so that there was not much doubt of the issue. The more Spaniards in the field, monsieur le général, the more there are to run away. Hi! hi!"