“Oh, that was a terrible consarn, so it was, and many brave fellows lost their billet; for these Spaniards had an ugly knack of knocking the wounded on the head after they were kilt. Sure, wasn’t I one of the party that stormed the Pizzelaro del Tow-row, where the bulls fight? and didn’t we make a big bull of it? for how could we get at ’em, your honour, seeing there was not even the spoke of a ladder by way of staircase? Ah, then poor Pat tumbled down with a wound I got in the breast, and then I thought of dare little Ireland and Norah; and so I struggled to get up again, but all was of no use; so I fainted with the loss of blood, and there I lay, spachless and comical entirely. “Well, when I woke, I heard a soft swate voice spaking to me in broken English--it was just like Norah’s, your honour; and so I opened my daylights to take a peep at the angel, for I thought it was her own dare self come in a phantomical manner to cheer my weary spirit, about to quit this world of trouble, only I couldn’t make out the brogue; but not a soul did I see, saving and except a young officer in the uniform of a Spanish hussar kneeling by my side and feeling my pulse, which was now bateing the dead march. The creature started when I showed my peepers, and the cap flew from its head. Oh, I shall never forget to remember that same, for it was a woman, your honour, and her long auburn locks came clustering down her forehead, and she looked like the commander-in-chief of the cherry-bums. Oh, she was beauty’s queen, and a countryman of my own; for though French by birth, she was married to a son of the sod. Long life to her, whether she’s dead or alive, for her kindness to poor Pat! for didn’t she have me carried by the viceroy’s sarvants to snug quarters, where my wound was dressed and the ball distracted? Faith, and she did, your honour, and many more besides me; for after the battle--having a regard for the brave sodger, and knowing that many lay bleeding on the ground--she put on the regimentals of a captain of hussars, as one of General Liniers’ aids-de-camp, and rode through the scenes of carnage to stop the murderers’ hands.[11] Oh, wasn’t she a darling of a soul? Ax General Beresford, your honour, for he knew her very well, by token--but that’s none of my business to notice; only ’twas whispered as soft as a peal of bells, that they found his image in wax-work, all alive and kicking, your honour.