"Adieu, gallant condé!" answered Ronald, as he passed beneath the walls with his party. It was the last time he ever beheld him. By the sound of his silver whistle he collected the Highland sentinels from all points. These, with Major-general Howard, Wemyss, the brigade-major, and Ronald himself, were the last men who quitted the ruins of Alba. The mounted officers rode at a trot, and the heavily laden infantry followed double-quick, with their musquets at the trail. The moment the bridge was cleared the sappers sprung the mine: a roar like that of thunder shook the current of the Tormes, and a cloud of dust and stones rose into the air. Ronald, who was severely bruised by the falling fragments, cast a glance behind as he hurried along. The bridge was a mass of ruins. The Spanish flag was waving from the round tower of Alba, which was now enveloped in smoke, and flashes of musquetry broke from it on all sides as the forlorn band of the condé opened a sharp fire from the rampart and loopholes upon a dense and dark column of French infantry, which was seen descending rapidly towards the town, with tri-colours flying, and brass drums beating in that peculiar manner by which the French regulate the quick step. After a desperate resistance, Truxillo and his Castilians were captured; but the sound of the firing was long heard by the brigade as it retreated in squares along the road for Ciudad Rodrigo, thus completely frustrating Soult’s design to enclose and cut them off by his cavalry, who appeared in about half an hour, and met with so desperate a resistance that they were compelled to retire with immense loss. That night the brigade halted on the skirts of a cork wood, five leagues distant from Alba de Tormes. The half-leafless branches afforded but a poor protection from the rain, which continued to pour without cessation until day-break, when the weary march was recommenced. It was indeed a night of misery! Although worn out with fatigue and hunger, it was impossible to sleep on the wet ground, on which the rushing rain was descending in drops larger than peas; and almost equally impossible to stand, after what had been endured for some days past,—marching from dawn till sunset laden with seventy-five pounds weight, and fasting for six-and-thirty, or eight-and-forty consecutive hours. Cursing themselves and their fate, many of the soldiers were so disheartened at the retreat, and the miseries they had undergone since they left Aranjuez, that they were often heard aloud "wishing to Heaven their brains had been blown out in Alba!"