Lieutenant J. Considine, at the assault of Badajoz, receives a ball through his body, and, stretched on the damp sod, enveloped in darkness, bleeds inwardly. A light is held over his pale face, and discovers the blood flowing from his mouth. Borne, however, to a place of security, he recovers. The next year he is tormented by a malignant fever, and afterwards, on the highest pinnacle of the Pyrenees, a ball strikes him; his thigh-bone is broken near the hip: he cries for help. I look down: he lies prostrate between my legs. The balls carry death and destruction around: we are under the walls storming a fort, and fighting hand to hand. Four soldiers attempt to carry him off, and, not being aware of the place of his wound, hoist him up, and turn his left foot outwards over his shoulder; by which means the thigh-bone is completely broken asunder. His screams are dreadful, and two of the soldiers fall dead, pierced with balls. The battle ended, he is carried to a place of security, where he eventually recovers!—and he now commands the 53d regiment. Early the next morning we were again on the road. The martial music struck up, and continued to play for a short distance: the word passed to march at ease: conversation then commenced. The soldiers lighted their pipes; and, before the sun had reached its meridian, we filed into Portalegre. The streets were marked off, in the first instance, for different corps; then the houses, again, subdivided amongst officers and soldiers; the latter portioned off according to the size of the different dwellings; the butt ends of the soldiers' firelocks serving as knockers, to rouse the sulky inmates, who would fain plead ignorance of the arrival of so many guests. It was by no means an uncommon occurrence for owners of houses to try all kinds of expedients, by absence, paltry excuses, or otherwise, to drive away the tired officers in disgust, who presented billets of lodgement. One day, an officer on the staff had patiently waited some time at a door without being able to gain admittance, until at length the _patron_ walked up from the street and feigned civility, making a low bow, and saying to the officer, "_Senhor_, I have no key;" when the officer returned his salute, coolly lifted up his long leg, and applied it to the door with such force that it flew open at the first blow—then turning to the astonished Portuguese, said "_Senhor, tiengo bon chave_"[12], and at a slow march and with clanking sabre, took possession of the house. From that day he was known by the appellation of _Bon chave_ throughout the army.