General Howard’s, or the first brigade, formed the third column, composed of the 50th regiment, the 71st Highland Light Infantry, and the Gordon Highlanders, together with some artillery. These marched by the mountains; the priest acting as their guide to the forts at the bridge of Almarez, which they were ordered to "take at the point of the bayonet." Sir Rowland Hill accompanied them, riding beside the grey padre, who had been accommodated with a mule, with a dozen bells jangling at its bridle. The night, as I have already said, was intensely dark; a general blackness enveloped the whole surrounding scenery, and the summits of the gloomy mountains among which they marched, could scarcely be discerned from the starless sky that closed behind them like a vast sable curtain. Many hours more than the general had ever calculated upon were spent on the way, and numerous suspicions of the guide’s knowledge or veracity were entertained; yet to all questions he replied with some monkish benediction, muttered in a snuffling tone, and insisted that the route he led them was the nearest to the village of Almarez. But many a malediction did the heavily-armed soldiers bestow on their monkish guide, and the desolate and toilsome way he led them. Struggling through dark defiles and narrow gorges, encumbered with fallen trees and rugged masses of rock, twisted brushwood and thickets, every one of which might, for aught they knew, contain a thousand riflemen in ambush,—through toilsome and slippery channels of rushing streams,—over immense tracts of barren mountainous waste, they were led during the whole of that night, the priest’s grey cope and cassock waving in the gloom as he rode at the head of the column, appearing like the _ignis-fatuus_, which led them about until, at last, when morning was drawing near, the column halted in the midst of a deep swamp, which took some ankle deep, and others above their leggins or gartered hose, in water,—the reverend padre declaring, by the sanctity of every saint in the kalendar, he knew not whereabouts they were. A scarce-smothered malison broke out from front to rear, and the soldiers stamped their feet in the water from pure vexation. Close column was now formed on the 50th regiment, and Sir Rowland questioned the padre in so angry a tone, that the whole brigade heard him. "Hold the bridle of his mule, and cut him down should he attempt to fly," said he to his orderly dragoon. "And now, _senor padre_, answer me directly, and attempt not to prevaricate; for by Heaven if you do, you will find your cassock no protection from the halberts or a musquet shot,—one or other you shall feel without ceremony." "Noble caballero," urged the padre. "Silence! This night you have played the traitor to Ferdinand, to Spain, and to us. Is it not so?" "No, senor general," replied the other stoutly. "Through your instrumentality, the attack on Almarez has failed." "_Ira se en humo!_"[*] replied the priest, doggedly.