So sudden was our charge that we were upon them before they were prepared. And here ensued a terrific struggle; for as the cavalry of the enemy gave way before us, we came upon the close ranks of the infantry at half-pistol distance, who poured a withering volley into us as we approached. But what could arrest the sweeping torrent of our brave fellows, though every moment falling in numbers? Harvey, our major, lost his arm near the shoulder. Scarcely an officer was not wounded. Power received a deep sabre-cut in the cheek from an aide-de-camp of General Foy, in return for a wound he gave the general; while I, in my endeavor to save General Laborde when unhorsed, was cut down through the helmet, and so stunned that I remembered no more around me. I kept my saddle, it is true, but I lost every sense of consciousness, my first glimmering of reason coming to my aid as I lay upon the river bank and felt my faithful follower Mike bathing my temples with water, as he kept up a running fire of lamentations for my being _murthered_ so young. [Illustration: THE SKIRMISH.] “Are you better, Mister Charles? Spake to me, alanah! Say that you’re not kilt, darling; do now. Oh, wirra! what’ll I ever say to the master? and you doing so beautiful! Wouldn’t he give the best baste in his stable to be looking at you to-day? There, take a sup; it’s only water. Bad luck to them, but it’s hard work beatin’ them. They ‘re only gone now. That’s right; now you’re coming to.” “Where am I, Mike?” “It’s here you are, darling, resting yourself.” “Well, Charley, my poor fellow, you’ve got sore bones, too,” cried Power, as, his face swathed in bandages and covered with blood, he lay down on the grass beside me. “It was a gallant thing while it lasted, but has cost us dearly. Poor Hixley--” “What of him?” said I, anxiously. “Poor fellow, he has seen his last battle-field! He fell across me as we came out upon the road. I lifted him up in my arms and bore him along above fifty yards; but he was stone dead. Not a sigh, not a word escaped him; shot through the forehead.” As he spoke, his lips trembled, and his voice sank to a mere whisper at the last words: “You remember what he said last night. Poor fellow, he was every inch a soldier.” Such was his epitaph. I turned my head towards the scene of our late encounter. Some dismounted guns and broken wagons alone marked the spot; while far in the distance, the dust of the retreating columns showed the beaten enemy as they hurried towards the frontiers of Spain. CHAPTER XLVI. THE MORNING. There are few sadder things in life than the day after a battle. The high-beating hope, the bounding spirits, have passed away, and in their stead comes the depressing reaction by which every overwrought excitement is followed. With far different eyes do we look upon the compact ranks and glistening files,-- With helm arrayed, And lance and blade, And plume in the gay wind dancing!