The road, a narrow and rugged path now as it descended, passed through a dark grove of wild pines; on issuing from which, Quentin's nerves received somewhat of a shock on seeing a French light dragoon, in pale green uniform, lying on his back quite dead, with the foam of past agony on his lips, and the blood of a recent wound still oozing from his left temple, through which a musket shot had passed. Crushed, apparently by a horse's hoof, his light brass helmet lay beside him. A few yards off lay another _Chasseur à cheval_, and further off still lay a third, who seemed to have been dragged some distance by his horse ere his foot had been disengaged from the stirrup, for a bloody and dusty track was visible from where Quentin stood to where the Chasseur lay. Quentin paused, for his heart beat wildly, and instinctively he looked to the flints and pans of his pistols, his hands trembling as he did so--with an excitement justifiable in one so young--but _not_ with fear. These three unfortunates were the first Frenchmen--the first slain--and, in fact (save the dead gipsy in the vault of Kilhenzie) they were the _first_ dead men he had looked upon; thus he glanced timidly, and while his heart swelled with pity, from one to the other. There they were, three smart and handsome young men, clad in showy light cavalry uniforms, each perhaps a mother's pride and father's hope, left dead and abandoned to the ravens, in that wild place, with their white faces and glazed eyes staring stonily at the glorious noonday sun, while the little birds came hopping and twittering about them. Quentin's gentle soul was stirred within him; he was new to this butcherly work, and war seemed wicked indeed! Those three rigid figures--those three pale faces with fallen jaws, and those bloody wounds, made a scaring and terrible impression upon him; but as he continued hastily to descend the hill, and left them behind, he foresaw not the callous heart and time that use and wont would bring. CHAPTER XVIII. THE CHASSEUR À CHEVAL. "The soldier little quiet finds, But is exposed to stormy winds, And weather."--L'ESTRANGE. After proceeding a little way, the sound of voices, as if engaged in fierce altercation, made him pause and look round warily, pistol in hand. He drew behind a gigantic Portuguese cypress that overshadowed the way, and on reconnoitring, discovered two men engaged in a fierce and deadly struggle. They were a French cavalry officer and a Spanish guerilla.