The alarm was now beginning to spread. Diego's friend was not less the enemy of the French than himself. Mina was in the mountains. Two excellent horses were in the stable of Diego's friend, belonging to a French colonel: these, with a brace of pistols and two swords, they seized during the absence of the servants; and, together with Diego's mule, forded the river, and took a by-way across the hill, towards the Tolosa road; the favourite mule was turned loose in a fertile valley, and the next day both the travellers came up with Mina's party, which they joined with a shout of “Viva Espagna!” Many a Frenchman fell by the hand of Diego—he had lost all; he only lived to avenge the destruction of his home and his happiness. No Guerilla was before him in the attack,—he was the first in, and the last out of the battle: and if gratified revenge could compensate for the ruin of tender affections, Diego was amply satisfied. But no, nothing could appease him,—the thought of his misery burned like Ætna's fires within his breast,—no blood could extinguish it. With only seven or eight others, he has been known to have surprised a party of French soldiers three times that number. Often has he watched their movements dressed as a simple muleteer, and when any favourable opportunity has occurred, he would hasten back to his companions, buckle on his sword, and return, thus reinforced, to attack any straggling band of the enemy drinking in a wine house, perhaps, or otherwise off their guard. To set fire to the house, and then dash in upon their victims and slaughter them, before they were aware of their danger, was a very usual mode of proceeding with Diego and his associates; after which exploits the Guerillas would disappear as rapidly as they had come.