Baltasar tore open the long official sheet of paper, and when his piercing eyes had run rapidly over the contents, to Quentin's great relief of mind, a smile that was almost pleasant spread over his sallow visage, like sunshine on a lake. "Hombres," he exclaimed to those around him, "listen! There are none here but true Castilians, so all may share my joy. On the second day of the ensuing November, the first division of the British army which is to rescue Spain will enter Castile by the Badajoz road, led by Sir John Hope, whose advance we are to cover by a collateral movement along the mountains by the hill ef Albuera. Long live Ferdinand the Seventh!" "Viva el Rey de Espana!" "Viva el nombre de Jesus!" Such were the kind of shouts that were raised by a hundred voices, while sundry faces, ere while darkened by hostile and suspicious scowls, were now wreathed with broad smiles, and many a battered sombrero and greasy bandanna were flourished aloft, while to the triumphant vivas the musket-butts clattered an accompaniment on the esparto-covered floor; and many a somewhat dingy hand shook Quentin's with energy, while, in token of friendship and alliance, wine, cigaritos, and tobacco pouches were proffered him on all sides. When the hubbub was somewhat over, Quentin (with some anxiety for his departure, as the atmosphere of the guerilla head-quarters seemed a dangerous one) said to the chief-- "Don Baltasar, my orders were and my most earnest wishes are to join my regiment at Portalegre, so I should wish to set out by daybreak to-morrow." "But the army will soon be advancing--why not remain with us till it comes up?" "Impossible!" said Quentin, whose heart sank at the suggestion. "Perhaps you think that you have seen enough of us; but in a war of independence, the invaded must not be too tender-hearted." "Nay, senor; but if it would please you to give me to-night your reply to the general commanding our division, it would favour me greatly." This simple question seemed to raise some undefinable suspicion, or recall something unpleasant to the Spaniard's mind, for, knitting his thick black brows over his deeply-set and lynx-like eyes, he regarded Quentin with a steady scrutiny, and said: "You are not an officer, it would seem? (How often had this remark stung poor Quentin.) You have no sash, gorget, or epaulettes?" "No, senor," replied Quentin, with a sigh; "I have not the good fortune." "What are you then--a simple soldado?" "Senor," replied Quentin, with growing irritation, for, in truth, he was very weary of his long day's journey, and its exciting episodes; "the letter you have just read, I believe, tells you what you require to know." "Santos! you are a bold fellow to bear yourself thus to _me_." "I am a British soldier on military duty," replied Quentin, loftily, as he saw that hardihood was the only quality appreciated by his new acquaintances.