Ronald saw at a glance that the heavy dragoon would be his opponent, and he felt some unpleasant doubts as to the issue of a conflict with a practised cavalry officer, and one thus sheathed in a panoply of steel and leather, while he himself had nothing to protect him from the blade of his adversary but his thin regimental coat and tartan plaid. The officer with the wounded arm moved his horse to the road-side, while the cuirassier twirled his moustaches with a grim smile, and unsheathed his glittering weapon—a species of long and straight back-sword, worn by the French cavalry, and desired Ronald imperiously to surrender without striking a blow. "_Rendez sans coup férir, Monsieur Officier_." Finding that he was not understood, and that Stuart prepared to defend himself, he reined his steed back a little way; and then dashing his spurs into its flanks, came thundering forward at full speed, shouting "_Vive l’Empereur!_" with his long blade uplifted, intending to hurl his adversary into eternity by a single stroke. But Stuart, by an adroit management of his horse’s bridle, made a _demi-volte_ or half-turn to his left, at the same time stooping his head till the plumes of his bonnet mingled with the mane of his horse, to avoid the Frenchman’s sweeping stroke, which whistled harmlessly through the air; while he in return dealt him a back-handed blow on the crest of his helmet as he passed him in his career, which at once tumbled him over his horse’s head and stretched him senseless in the dust, while his sword fell from his grasp, and broke in a dozen pieces. Elated with this sudden and unlooked-for success, Ronald brandished his claymore aloft, and rushed on to the next officer; but drew back, and lowered the point of his weapon, on perceiving the startled and indignant look of the veteran, who held up his wounded arm. "Pass on, sir!" said Ronald, substituting Spanish for French, of which he scarcely knew above a dozen words. "I might, if I chose, make you prisoner; but I wish not to take advantage of your being wounded. Pass on, sir; the road is open before you." The Frenchman appeared to understand him imperfectly, but raising his cocked hat, he prepared at once to take the benefit of the permission. "Adieu, Monsieur de Mesmai!" said he, on passing his fallen comrade, adding something in a whisper, fragments of which only reached Ronald. "_Malheurs, mon ami—à la guerre—comme à la guerre—retournez et reprenez-vous—chasseurs à cheval_," and he galloped off. Ronald was half tempted to ride after and cut him down, and thus securely stop his intention of returning with the twenty light-horsemen, as he supposed he meant to do, for the disjointed fragments he had heard implied an understanding between them. "_Ah, la malice du diable!_" cried the cuirassier, as he endeavoured to rise. "Come, Senor Cuirassier," said Ronald in Spanish; "I believe I am to consider you a prisoner on parole?"