"A death-hunter! He shall die, by heavens!" exclaimed one of the strangers, snatching a pistol from his holsters and firing after Cifuentes, who was seen bounding with the speed of a greyhound over the encumbered field, and the moon shone full upon him. A sharp howl of pain followed the report of the shot. "Your shot has told, my lord," said the other officer. "These rascals deserve no mercy." "The fellow is leaping along yet. I would again fire, but for the waste of powder." "He was struggling with some one here." "Your arrival has been very fortunate," said Ronald, in a voice which faltered from weariness and excitement. "I have had a protracted and desperate struggle with the ruffian, and must have perished under his hands at last, as I am weak with loss of blood, and totally incapable of defending myself." "Put this to your mouth," said the first speaker, "and take a hearty pull. ’Tis cold whisky-toddy,—a beverage not often got so near the Pyrenees." "Thanks, sir!" said Ronald, as he put the flask to his lips, and drank gratefully of the contents. "So we have gained the day." "Gloriously!" replied the other. "But where are you wounded?" "On the head,—by a blow from a musquet-butt, or shaft of a pike. I received it on the heights of Puebla." "Ah, there was sharp work there, when the battle began this morning. So you belong to the fighting division—Sir Rowland’s? You have wandered a long way from the heights." "I was endeavouring to rejoin my regiment," replied Ronald, staggering up, and propping himself with his sword; "I was loath to be absent while I could lift a limb. But to whom am I indebted for my safety? You are both countrymen, I believe, by your voices." "You are right," replied the officer who wounded Cifuentes. "This is Captain Ramsay, of the 18th Hussars,—Ramsay of the Dyke-neuk-heid, as we call him at home; and I am Lord Dalhousie. We are riding to join the seventh division." "I was not aware to whom I had the honour of addressing myself," said Ronald. "I shall be obliged by your lordship informing me where my own regiment now is." "The Gordon Highlanders, I presume?" "Exactly, my lord,—in Stuart’s, late Howard’s brigade." "A brave regiment, and my heart warmed at the sight of their tartans to-day. They are a long way from this, pursuing the French along the Pampeluna road, and are probably as far as Salvatierra by this time." "Then I can never reach them to-night," said Stuart dejectedly. "Here are some of the Waggon-train," said the earl. "To their care we must consign you and be off forthwith, as all the troops are pressing forward en route for the Pyrenees."