Crawfurd, too, had recognized me in the kindest manner; and while saying that he did not wish to withdraw me from my regiment on a day of battle, added that he would make use of me for the present on his staff. Thus was I engaged, from early in the morning till late in the evening, bringing orders and despatches along the line. The troop-horse I rode--for I reserved my gray for the following day--was scarcely able to carry me along, as towards dusk I jogged along in the direction of Naval d’Aver. When I did reach our quarters, the fires were lighted, and around one of them I had the good fortune to find a party of the Fourteenth occupied in discussing a very appetizing little supper. The clatter of plates, and the popping of champagne corks were most agreeable sounds. Indeed, the latter appeared to me so much too flattering an illusion, that I hesitated giving credit to my senses in the matter, when Baker called out,-- “Come, Charley, sit down; you’re just in the nick. Tom Marsden is giving us a benefit. You know Tom?” And here he presented me in due form to that best of commissaries and most hospitable of horse-dealers. “I can’t introduce you to my friend on my right,” continued Baker, “for my Spanish is only a skeleton battalion; but he’s a trump,--that I’ll vouch for; never flinches his glass, and looks as though he enjoyed all our nonsense.” The Spaniard, who appeared to comprehend that he was alluded to, gravely saluted me with a low bow, and offered his glass to hobnob with me. I returned the curtesy with becoming ceremony, while Hampden whispered in my ear,-- “A fine-looking fellow. You know who he is? Julian, the Guerilla chief.” I had heard much of both the strangers. Tom Marsden was a household word in every cavalry brigade; equally celebrated were his contracts and his claret. He knew every one, from Lord Wellington to the last-joined cornet; and while upon a march, there was no piece of better fortune than to be asked to dine with him. So in the very thick of battle, Tom’s critical eye was scanning the squadrons engaged, with an accuracy as to the number of fresh horses that would be required upon the morrow that nothing but long practice and infinite coolness could have conferred. Of the Guerilla I need not speak. The bold feats he accomplished, the aid he rendered to the cause of his country, have made his name historical. Yet still with all this, fatigue, more powerful than my curiosity, prevailed, and I sank into a heavy sleep upon the grass, while my merry companions kept up their revels till near morning. The last piece of consciousness I am sensible of was seeing Julian spreading his wide mantle over me as I lay, while I heard his deep voice whisper a kind wish for my repose. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BATTLE OF FUENTES D’ONORO.