"Keep order among the prisoners!" cried Stuart, on the occasion of a brawl ensuing between them and the Spaniards. "Your fellows must restrain their national animosity,—just now, at least," added he firmly, to the Spanish lieutenant commanding the escort. "_Bueno!_ but how am I to do it? See you, senor," said the Spaniard, "how the Frenchmen spit upon and upbraid them, as if they were so many Moors or Portuguese? _Virgin del Pilar_! I would hew them down to ribbons, but for the contrary order of senor the great _Capitan Général_,—the Duke of Vittoria."[*] [*] Wellington’s Spanish title. "Stay, senor," said Stuart; "one should treat with generosity a conquered enemy." "On my honour, _capitan_," replied the other, "old Cuesta would have had them all swimming down the Nive, had he commanded here." "Holloa, Stuart!" cried Macpherson; "come this way! Here is another uproar. Never mind the prisoners; one might as well sing psalms to a dead horse, as speak of generosity to a Spaniard." Their attention was arrested by the report of a musquet; and hurrying to where the sound came from, they found several Highlanders engaged in beating down the door of a turret. This operation Iverach shortened, by applying his musquet and blowing the lock to pieces,—a perilous exploit for the inmate, who narrowly escaped being shot through the body. Evan next applied his shoulder to the shattered barrier, and burst it open. "Maister Lisle o’ the Inch-house! Hurrah! How happy I am to see you. Od, this dings a’! he exclaimed in breathless astonishment, as Lisle issued from his place of confinement. "Ha! Louis," cried Stuart, grasping his hand in wonder. "Is it possible that they treat you in this unworthy manner, caging you up in a place like a dog-kennel? I thought you were enjoying yourself on parole in France?" "No, faith! I have been locked up like a jailbird in Pampeluna, and other infernal places, ever since that unlucky affair at Fuente Duenna; and yet, after all, I do not regret it." "Indeed!" "Why, you have yet to learn. But where is Virginia,—Virginia de Alba?" "How on earth should I know, Louis? ’Tis an odd question; but her father’s blood, the fierce old villain! is yet red on Evan’s bayonet." "What is this you tell me?" said Lisle frowning. "Was the duke slain?" "He fell in the assault," replied Macpherson, "and thus escaped the axe, the _garrote_, or a volley through the back,—all of which he so well merited." "Stay, Macpherson!" interrupted Lisle, so angrily that the other was indignant. "I will not hear him spoken of thus. He has gone to his last account,—so rail against him no more. Truly, he deserves little pity from me, for I have suffered much at his hands; but that you will all know another time. Virginia! Virginia! for Heaven’s sake tell me something about her!"