It was the day prior to the fall of Badajoz, and O'Farrell, who was in Badajoz at the time, a prisoner of the French, was invited to partake of supper with some Spanish-Irish friends of his of the name of McMahon. The French, it may be observed, were, as a rule, rather more lenient to their Irish prisoners than to their English, and O'Farrell was allowed to ramble about Badajoz in perfect freedom, a mere pledge being extracted from him that he wouldn't stroll outside the boundaries of the town without special permission. On the night in question O'Farrell left his quarters in high spirits. He liked the McMahons, especially the youngest daughter Katherine, with whom he was very much in love. He deemed his case hopeless, however, as Mr McMahon, who was poor, had often said none of his daughters should marry, unless it were someone who was wealthy enough to ensure them being well provided for, should they be left a widow; and as O'Farrell had nothing but his pay, which was meagre enough in all conscience, he saw no prospect of his ever being able to propose to the object of his affections. Had he been strong-minded enough, he told himself, he would have at once said good-bye to Katherine, and never have allowed himself to see or even think of her again; but, poor weakling that he was, he could not bear the idea of taking a final peep into her eyes--the eyes that he had idealised into his heaven and everything that made life worth living for--and so he kept accepting invitations to their house and throwing himself across her path, whenever the slightest opportunity presented itself.