* In February after the battle, two French eagles, each weighing fifteen ounces of silver, were sold to a silversmith in Chichester by a soldier of the 92nd Highlanders, who said that he had bayoneted the Frenchmen, and brought the trophies home in his knapsack.--_Annual Register_ for 1809. "And Donna Isidora?" said Quentin, not caring much about the eagle. "The sorrowful widow--_peste!_ she is at Lugo with the Light Division." "She is not coming here, I trust?" "Can't say, mon camarade; but pardieu, I should hope not." Though Quentin knew that his commission and promotion in the 7th Fusiliers were now both secured, he writhed under the idea of being a prisoner of war; but there was no help for it. He had given his parole of honour, and by that he was bound to abide. Not even the keen longing to see Flora, to tell his story and lay his laurels, while they were yet fresh, at her feet, could lure him to break his bonds; but being intensely wearied of Corunna, he hailed with extreme satisfaction a change in the plans of the really delightful family with whom he resided. Tidings of a new and more powerful expedition, destined to drive the French from Spain, under Sir Arthur Wellesley, the future Duke of Wellington, had now come to all the Emperor's marshals and garrisons officially; and thus General de Ribeaupierre resolved on sending his lady, in charge of Eugene, to Paris, whither they begged Quentin to accompany them. Anything was better than lingering in Corunna or setting out for Verdun; and so, bidding adieu to the kind old general, within a few weeks after his convalescence, Quentin found himself kindly adjusting the wraps and mufflings of madame on the deck of the _Bien Aimé_, a privateer brig, mounting six 12-pounders, M. Marin, captain, bound for the mouth of the Loire; and long did he and Eugene pace the deck together that night, building castles, exchanging confidences, and smoking cigars, while the wild waves of the Bay of Biscay tore past in dark ridges to leeward, and the last of the Galician hills, the great Sierra de Mondonedo, sank into the dark world of waters astern. CHAPTER XXIII. THE "BIEN AIMÉ." "He had fought the red English, he said, In many a battle in Spain; He cursed the red English, and prayed To meet and fight them again!"--THACKERAY. _Le Bien Aimé_ encountered very rough weather, and beat hard against the westerly winds which always prevail in the stormy Bay of Biscay, where the broad waves of the Atlantic roll in all their full and unbroken weight.