"I am commandant of the forts of the bridge. A wing of my own battalion of the Guard form part of the garrison. But we must part now, monsieur. How dark the evening has become! Almarez is a long way off among the mountains, and we shall barely reach it by to-morrow. I am anxious to return and console a certain lady there, who has, I suppose, been pining very much in my absence." "Indeed! ’Tis no wonder, then, that Diane de Montmichel is so easily forgotten." "_Peste_! I am executing but a part of my grand plot of vengeance against the sex," replied the other gaily. "I am a droll fellow, monsieur, but quite the one for a soldier. The young creature is superbly beautiful. I captured her at a town near this a few weeks ago, and carried her to Almarez, to enliven my quarters there. But _diable!_ she is ever drooping like a broken lily, weeping, and upbraiding me in Spanish; but I must make a bold effort, when I return, to carry her heart by escalade. I have half won the outworks already, I believe. _Soldats!_" cried he, turning quickly round, "_portez vos armes; demi-tour à droite,—marche!_" He touched his cap and went off with his party, saying, in a loud and laughing tone, "Adieu, _mon ami_; when I return to Almarez, I shall speak of you to _la belle Cataline_." Ronald, who had listened to his last observations with some emotion, started at the name he mentioned, and would have recalled him; but a long, loud, and angry bugle-blast from the out-picquet compelled him to retire and recross the Almonte, but he cast many an anxious glance after the dark and lessening figures of D’Estouville and his soldiers, as they toiled their way through the field of tall corn. The evening had now given place to the night, the last trace of day had faded from the mountainous ridge of the Lina, and the waning moon was shining coldly and palely above the spires and castle of Truxillo. "Mr. Stuart," said one of the soldiers, as they marched along under the dark shadows of the thick and gloomy vine-trellis, "if I micht daur to advise, it wadna be amiss to ask that chield with the sark owre his claes, what he means by followin’ us aboot, as he has dune, glintin’ and glidin’ here and there in the gloaming." "Who—where, Macpherson?" "Under the vine-trees, on your richt hand, sir." Ronald now perceived, for the first time, a priest in a light grey cassock or gown, which enveloped his whole body, keeping pace with them—taking step for step, at a short distance. "He has been close beside ye, sir," continued the soldier, "the haill time ye were speaking to the Frenchman,—listening and glowering wi’ een like a gosshawk, although he aye keepit himsel sae close amang the leaves o’ the bushes, that you couldna see him as we did."