"Don Fabrique de Urquija!" was the cry, shots were fired--maladito! and the escort, which consisted of a sergeant and four dragoons of the Spanish army, turned their horses and fled at full speed, leaving the convoy to the mercy of the outlaws, who captured the rear calesso, cut its springs, shot the driver, and had retained it with all its contents and passengers. The other four had escaped, and came thundering down the narrow path to Castellar with all their passengers shouting with terror, the mules galloping, the bells jangling, and every vehicle plunging like a ship in a storm. "Morte de Dios!" added the military personage, whom they called Don Joaquim, and from whom we had this account; "it was a narrow escape, for Urquija is a very Tartar--a blood-drinker! You belong to the British service, señores, I presume?" "Yes," said I. "To the garrison in Gibraltar, of course?" "Of course; we have no other garrison in Spain." "And you are on leave, señores?" "Si, señor, on leave, and going to Seville," said I, conceiving that to tell our real object to this inquisitive officer might not be conducive to the cultivation of mutual good-will. "I also am an officer," said he, bowing; "and belong to the Portuguese service--Major in the ancient Regiment of St. Anthony." "But you are a Spaniard," said I. "The señor is right; but my father was tied to a post one fine morning, and shot by Don Ramon de Cabrera; it gave me a disgust at Spain, for I saw it done, so I entered the service of Portugal. Come, hombres, I am glad to meet two brothers of the sword; we shall have a fresh bota of Xeres, and be comfortable for the night. After this devilish piece of work, the convoy cannot proceed without an escort; it must halt till morning, so let us all be happy together. I shall be in Seville myself ere long, and hope to have the pleasure of meeting you there." Don Joaquim seemed to be about thirty-five years of age; in figure he was somewhat short and punchy, his face was round and good-humoured, though at times it became stern, sinister, and almost fierce, if anything excited him. His hair was shorn short, but his moustaches were long and lanky, and hung over his mouth like black leeches, imparting to his face an aspect not unlike the old portraits of Philip II. His light-green military surtout, like his scarlet trousers, was edged with gold lace, and he wore an enormous sabre, which clattered in a scabbard of polished brass. At a button-hole hung a little order of merit; the bag, or end of his forage-cap, drooped upon his right shoulder; his mouth was never without one of those paper cigaritos of which he was constantly employed in the manufacture from a little paper book and tobacco bag; and now I hope the reader sees before him, or her, Major Don Joaquim of the Regiment of St. Anthony, otherwise styled of Lagos.