I had, as I said, left the podesta with Sheeny's portmanteau, and, unwilling to part with some of the articles it contained--some shirts, a bottle of whiskey, a few cakes of Windsor soap, &c. &c.,--I had carried it thus far on my shoulders, but now was compelled to sacrifice it malgre moi. As the lancer came up, I dropped my sword from my right hand, and hurled the portmanteau at his head, with aim so true, that he fell back on his saddle like a sack, and thus when the horse galloped up to me, I had no difficulty in dismounting the rider: the whiskey-bottle struck him over his right eye, and he was completely stunned. To dash him from the saddle and spring myself into it, was the work of a moment; indeed, the two combats had taken place in about a fifth part of the time which it has taken the reader to peruse the description. But in the rapidity of the last encounter, and the mounting of my enemy's horse, I had committed a very absurd oversight--I was scampering away WITHOUT MY SWORD! What was I to do?--to scamper on, to be sure, and trust to the legs of my horse for safety! The lancer behind me gained on me every moment, and I could hear his horrid laugh as he neared me. I leaned forward jockey-fashion in my saddle, and kicked, and urged, and flogged with my hand, but all in vain. Closer--closer--the point of his lance was within two feet of my back. Ah! ah! he delivered the point, and fancy my agony when I felt it enter--through exactly fifty-nine pages of the New Monthly Magazine. Had it not been for that Magazine, I should have been impaled without a shadow of a doubt. Was I wrong in feeling gratitude? Had I not cause to continue my contributions to that periodical? When I got safe into Morella, along with the tail of the sallying party, I was for the first time made acquainted with the ridiculous result of the lancer's thrust (as he delivered his lance, I must tell you that a ball came whiz over my head from our fellows, and entering at his nose, put a stop to HIS lancing for the future). I hastened to Cabrera's quarter, and related to him some of my adventures during the day. “But, General,” said he, “you are standing. I beg you chiudete l'uscio (take a chair).” I did so, and then for the first time was aware that there was some foreign substance in the tail of my coat, which prevented my sitting at ease. I drew out the Magazine which I had seized, and there, to my wonder, DISCOVERED THE CHRISTINO LANCE twisted up like a fish-hook, or a pastoral crook. “Ha! ha! ha!” said Cabrera (who is a notorious wag). “Valdepenas madrilenos,” growled out Tristany. “By my cachuca di caballero (upon my honor as a gentleman),” shrieked out Ros d'Eroles, convulsed with laughter, “I will send it to the Bishop of Leon for a crozier.”