He, with his companion Knox, remained some time in Cadiz, taking great interest in the operations of attack and defence, into which they were initiated by their friend, the celebrated Lord Macduff, [4] an exceptionally keen and gallant soldier, who, however, apparently owed his predilection for war to a singularly horrible event in his life. "A tragic episode," writes John Stanhope, "has rendered the excitement of active service an absolute necessity to him. His delight in battle arises solely from the loss of a beloved wife, and sadly calculated was the end of the beautiful Mrs Macduff to make the most serious impression on a husband's mind, all the more so, perhaps, in that so fully did she merit that epithet _beautiful_ which was always attached to her name. She had a Newfoundland dog, which one day leapt up in apparent affection, and catching her nose, gave it a bite, which not only seemed little more than a scratch, but as the dog had just sprung out of the water no suspicion attached to him. After some lapse of time, however, Mrs Duff was seized with symptoms of hydrophobia, and soon fell a victim to that dreadful disorder. Such a death for anyone cannot be contemplated without a shudder, but in the case of one in the full pride of youth and exceptional beauty, it appears, if possible, more inexpressibly horrible; and her unhappy husband has subsequently striven to find even a temporary oblivion of it in the greatest of earthly excitements--the din of arms." Mixing with the most interesting society of Spain, enjoying many novel experiences and encountering many famous people, the days of the young travellers passed pleasantly. The Spaniards at this date cherished the most profound admiration for the English. "They," explains John Stanhope, "consider an Englishman as something superhuman, and, indeed, are anxious that 'George terceo' should come to reign over them." He was also much struck by the "devotion of the entire nation to the forms of their religion"; and he adds: "There is, perhaps, nothing more striking amongst the numerous ceremonies of this superstitious people than the effect produced by what is usually known as the Angelus. On a fine evening in summer, when the Alameda is crowded with Spaniards of all classes, enjoying the delights of a Southern sky and the pure breezes of the sea, at one moment all is noise and animation, the eyes, the tongues, the faces of the fair Andalusians are all in motion and the Spanish _caballeros_ all devoted to the terrestrial object of their adoration: on a sudden, the Angelus sounds, the whole babel stops, a profound stillness falls like a cloud over the gay scene, and everyone remains totally absorbed in prayer so long as the sound of the bell is heard. It is scarcely possible to convey any adequate idea of the effect produced by the instantaneous silence of so vast a crowd. The moment the bell ceases, each addresses a salutation to the person whom chance has thrown near him, and the