Then he thought for an instant. He must make sure his escape from the town. What if the sentry were again moving round the square? Stepping softly into the road, he picked up a large loose cobble and flung it with all his force towards the corner farthest away from the road he meant to take. The stone struck the road several yards beyond the building, and made a clatter as it ricochetted along. He heard an exclamation from the sentry, who set off at a quick step in the direction of the sound. Without more delay Jack hastened in the opposite direction, hearing behind him, more and more faintly, the quaint refrain of the gipsy’s wild song: "Kosko gry! Romany gry! Muk man kistur tuté knaw!" He arrived safely at the end of the street. The mirth of the French was even more uproarious, their fancied security clearly still more confident. Out of the town, into the lane, Jack hurried at full speed; past the guard-house, along over the field, among the bare vine-poles until he reached his horse again. A whinny greeted him. He sprang on to the animal’s back, and cantered back rapidly in the direction of the Valladolid road. "We’ll make a clean swoop of them or I’m a Dutchman," he said to himself gleefully. "Was there ever such luck—and such bad management! Won’t Charley Stewart be delighted!" On he rode, keeping his ears open for the slightest sound. He had come, as he judged, within a mile of the scene of his afternoon’s adventure when he heard the sound of horses trotting. Turning off the road, he walked his horse for some distance across the field and waited. The riders were approaching him. He tried to determine from the sound of the hoofs how many they were. Then he heard voices—they carried far in the silence of the frosty night,—and as they came opposite him he heard an English voice say with a growl: "’Pon my soul, the madcap deserves to be nabbed!" "Charley himself!" chuckled Jack. "Who goes there?" he called. The horses stopped, and a voice called sharply: "Who are you?" "Lumsden of the 95th." "Gad, it’s the fellow himself. Come and show yourself, you daredevil! Where in the world have you been?" "Into Rueda and back, sir," said Jack, saluting. "And what the blazes have you been doing there?" "Taking stock, sir. There are a hundred French in the town, cavalry and infantry mixed, and they’re all hard at it with drink and cards." "The deuce they are! No sentries, eh?" "A few in a cabin this side of the town, sir, but they’re busy at the same game." "Are they, begad? Seymour, we’ll collar this little lot. We were coming to rescue your dead body, young man, and you’ve disappointed us. Ride back, there, and tell the squadron to hurry. We’ll draw first blood to-night."