At daylight the next morning we started. The spangled dew still hung on the trees, the morning breeze refreshed my body and mind, and with exhilarated spirits I felt as if new life and fresh vigour had been conveyed throughout my frame. The dead French soldier was still stationary in the wood, and in exactly the same position already described. On re-entering Alba de Tormes, I passed the _apothecary's shop_, with exultation, which only four weeks before I had entered in such a miserable plight. When we passed through Arevalo, one of the narrow streets leading to the Plaza was choked up with cars from the city of Burgos, crammed to overloading with exhausted, speechless, and wounded Highlanders, covered with hot sand, and many of them slumbering unto death; their pallid countenances portended the speedy dissolution of their lingering sufferings, while their sable plumes and torn tartans hung loosely on the pointed stakes, which formed the temporary sides of the rude vehicles. I searched in vain, through every narrow avenue, and amongst the numerous convents and monasteries, for the house of the young lady who had been so attentive to me in that town. I well recollected the high walls of one of those fabrics inclosing one side of the garden; I was, therefore, in hopes that in some spot of difficult access, I should find the fair object of my solicitude. The whole of the following day (during our halt) was passed, however, in fruitless search. Continuing the march, our little column consisted of three hundred and fifty men, and when within sight of the distant villages, which were surrounded by extensive plains, the church bells rang merry peals. Almost the whole of these places had been entrenched by temporary works, and the churches loopholed by the French posts of communication, to protect their small detachments from being destroyed or cut off by the _guerillas_, or surprised by the infuriated peasantry. Shortly before we reached the Guadarama mountains, we struck into the high road to Madrid; for many miles there was scarcely a house to be seen. At length we came to a _venta_, on the right of the road, but the house had been thoroughly gutted, and it was impossible for the owners of it to procure any thing for us to eat. The country bore a very solitary aspect until we began to ascend the pass by a paved road, cut in a zigzag direction up the face of the mountain, on the top of which stands a marble fountain. The prospect from this point is very grand, commanding a distant view of Madrid, of the palace of the Escurial, and of the rugged mountains extending towards Segovia, which are covered with snow during the greater portion of the year. The poor village of the Guadarama is situated in a valley at the foot of the grand pass, in the kingdom of new Castile.