"For four days, my friend," said De Mesmai; "four days and four nights, on my sacred honour! my most earnest entreaties for bread were disregarded. When I used humbly to request, _Pan, gracios Senor Castellano,—pan en el nombre de Dios_? This scowling coward used to point to the village ruined by Massena’s troops, and reply,—_Carajo! Perro é ladrone! El Español no hay nada. A quien Dios de mala ventura_! ’Dog and thief! the Spaniard has none. Ill luck to you!’ This was my hourly answer. _Tête-Dieu!_ how my blood has boiled up within me, and I have longed to thrust my hand into his ungenerous heart. _Sacre!_ with two of my gallant 10th at my back, and were I again astride of my fleet Norman, I could soon make these rascals fly like hares before the hound. But may this right hand and arm be withered and shrunken unto the shoulder, if ever again it spares the life of a Spaniard when my sword has once laid the dog at my mercy. I will revenge in red blood the countless—the never-to-be-forgotten indignities I have received from these infernal guerillas. They have been taunting me for these few days past with a defeat which, they say, Marmont has met with at Salamanca. Bah! Lord Wellington could never beat Marmont, and I know the rogues have lied." Ronald smiled, but made no effort to undeceive him. "Take my arm, De Mesmai, and permit me to lead you from this place," said he, apprehensive that blows would soon be exchanged between the Gaul and Spaniard, who glared at each other with unspeakable hatred and ferocity. "_Vive la joie!_ how I rejoiced when I beheld the scarlet columns of the British descending by the Navil Moral road on Calzada de Orepesa! I knew that my hour of deliverance was at hand." "Come, then; march, monsieur. Let us leave this dismal tower! Stand aside, worthy Senor Castellano." "_Satanos, Senor Officiale!_ it cannot be that you mean to release our prisoner?" asked the guerilla, grasping his poniard again. "Unhand your dagger, you rascally guerilla! or I will seize you by the throat, and hurl you to the bottom of your tower," cried Ronald, laying his hand on his sword. "_Il a la mine guerrier_," said De Mesmai sneeringly, in his native language, and laughing at the guerilla, who still hesitated; while others came crowding into the apartment, and began to handle the locks of their musquets. "Would to St. Belzebub I had a weapon to strike in with you! We would cut our way through these base plebeians, as through so many children."