make way for the flying horseman, and he dashed pell-mell through their midst. "The game’s up!" thought Jack with a sigh of disappointment. "Poor old horse! You’re done up." He rode into the crowd. "After him!" he cried in Spanish, pointing after the Frenchman. "After him, hombres! The English are at Rueda. Don’t let him escape. My horse is foundered; somebody mount and catch the dog!" But not a man moved in response to his cry. Jack dismounted, trembling in every limb, and furious with the Spaniards for their apathy. As he led his quivering horse towards the inn, and the throng gathered around him, he stopped suddenly, for there, in front of the inn door, stretched on his back, lay a soldier, his eyes closed, his cheeks pale in the ghastly torchlight, a dark stain marking the frosty road. "What is it? Who is he?" asked Jack. He looked round, and saw at the inn door a man with a reeking knife in his hand. As Jack passed, the man came forward. "I did it! One of the accursed French. I killed him!" He went on to explain that he was the posting-master of the place. The French horseman had ridden up half an hour before and demanded refreshment; he had behaved with such insolence and brutality that human nature could not endure it. "He was an enemy of my country, and I killed him!" the man concluded. Jack shuddered involuntarily, and stepped round the corpse to enter the inn. *CHAPTER X* *The Emperor’s Despatch* Spoils of War—Hard Cash—A Good Bargain—"To Command the World"—A Wigging—"Missing"—Through the Night—Dead Beat—Grumbling—A Late Breakfast—Mixed Metaphors—A Change of Route Jack threw himself wearily into a chair. He was tired, famished, disappointed—above all, disappointed,—for he had set his heart on capturing the Frenchman as a crowning achievement for this crowded day. For a few moments he sat staring with downcast eyes at the floor; then he pulled himself together. "It can’t be helped," he thought. "I did my best.—Landlord, give me some food." The landlord put down on the table, between two smoking candles, the knife which he had retained up to this moment. "Some food for the caballero," he said to one of his men. "And you, Perez, go outside and bury that carrion Frenchman." Some minutes passed. Jack found that he had no appetite for the crude dishes set before him, and heard dully, with inattentive ears, the slow monotone of the landlord, who seemed to be anxious to justify to himself the act of murder he had committed. Presently two of the inn servants entered. "We have buried him, master," said the first. "And his clothes are rich; we thought maybe you would wish to have them." His companion came forward, and laid before the inn-keeper a heap of garments. "He was a handsome man," added the first.