Our troops often met with many adventures with these foes; and many were the weary hours, in our toilsome marches, that were beguiled by the recital of their hair-breadth escapes, or their own wonderful adventures. Some of these were of so much interest that I cannot refrain from a desire to recount a few to my readers. Don Julian Sanchez was the son of a farmer, on the banks of the Guebra. The little cottage where he resided, with his parents and one sister, was the abode of happiness and plenty. In an evil hour, the French army passed that way. Their cattle were driven away and slaughtered, and their little harvest, just reaped, became the prey of the plunderers. Terrified and despairing, Julian fled, with his parents and sister, to the woods. But his parents were old, and, before they could reach the shelter of the wood, they were overtaken, carried back to the cottage, and murdered, in cold blood, on their own hearthstone. Julian and his sister concealed themselves in a cave; but the next day he left her there, and went to see if he could obtain any trace of his parents. Directing his course to their little cottage, he found their murdered corpses. Revenge and anger, in a spirit like Julian’s, was deep, not loud. He shed no tear, uttered no complaint,--but calmly proceeded to inter the bodies of his parents in a humble grave. Then, kneeling on the sod, he swore revenge on their murderers,--a revenge which should be followed till his latest breath. He returned to his sister; but, as he approached the cave where he had left her, what a sight met his view! A party of the hated army were just issuing from its precincts. The body of his beautiful sister lay on the ground naked,--dishonored,--the victim of a vile outrage. Julian gazed for a moment on the scene. He had no time for tears, and he had sworn to live for revenge,--a vow which now burned itself in deeper characters upon his soul. He turned away. A huge rock overhung the cave. He ascended it, and, secreting himself in a little fissure where he could be heard, not seen, he gazed for a few moments on the chief of the band, till every line of his countenance was impressed on his soul. Then, calling to him from the rock, he said, “You hear me, but you see me not. I am a Spaniard, the son of those parents you murdered yesterday--the brother of her whose corpse lies before you. You are their murderer; and I swear, by the Holy Virgin, that I will never lose sight for one day of your path, until my hands are imbrued in your heart’s best blood! You may think to escape me; but remember, you shall die by my hand!”