That race between the English and the French, first for Benevente, next for Astorga, made it imperative that not an hour should be lost. At all costs the men had to press onward, putting forth their best speed. Hour after hour, oftentimes by night, the march continued—through rain or snow or fog; up steep and slippery ascents, or down sharp depths where foothold could hardly be found; on and on, hungry, thirsty, weary, half asleep, not a few shoeless and lame, many a one dropping through weakness by the roadside, never to rise again. In the van and centre of the Army some confusion reigned; but in the reserve, where Moore was always to be found, generally riding beside his friend General Paget, discipline remained perfect, and an impregnable front was offered to the pursuing foe. All there knew themselves to be under the eyes of their Commander; and his presence, even more than the close presence of the enemy, kept them up to the mark. Again and again the French advanced guards were charged and driven back. Roy Baron had passed through some strange experiences in his short life. He would not easily forget this last experience—this steady disheartening rearwards tramp, with the trained battalions of Napoleon ever “thundering” behind them. He would not forget the bitter snowy weather, the sleet and hail, the fogs and winds, the mountain heights, the exposed nights, the dogged pluck and determination shown by the rear-guard, the ceaseless care and watchfulness of Moore, the invincible resolution of this man who, by sheer force of will, held the whole Army together, and never at the worst allowed the retreat for one moment to become a flight. Not that Roy was disheartened or depressed. Far from it. He was young and strong and full of vigour; and the very hardships of the march seemed to him less hard to bear than those of a certain march which he could recall—from Verdun to Bitche. For then he had been alone; he had felt himself to be treated with cruel injustice and tyranny. Now he was fighting for his country; he was in the midst of friends; and not a day passed without a sight of the Commander, upon whom he looked with a passionate admiration and affection. He hated the fact of having to retire, but his trust in the judgment of Moore was complete; and at any time it took a great deal to lower Roy’s buoyant spirits. Moreover, the reserve had too much of actual hard fighting on hand, to admit of their growing downhearted. Any one of them might chance any day to win a smile of commendation from Moore; and _that_ was worth fighting for, worth bearing anything for. Roy soon learnt what it was to be under fire. If at first the experience was to him, as to most men, unpleasant, he grew quickly used to it. Before long he had the supreme delight of being personally praised by the General for dashing courage. It seemed to Roy then that life needed nothing more.