Elsewhere the fighting had been equally strenuous. After many and many an attempt the castle was at length won, and later Walker's brigade tore its gallant way over the San Vincente Bastion, victorious in spite of mines and guns fired at point-blank range. It was from that quarter, in fact, that success at length came; for the Light and the 4th Divisions had as yet failed to burst their way through the breaches before them. But an advance from the direction of San Vincente took the defenders in the rear, and just as our men had retired at the orders of Wellington, preparatory to a fresh attack, those breaches were taken. Men burst in now from all directions; the enemy fled for the most part to Fort Christoval, over the river, and Badajoz was ours. Cheers and counter cheers were heard in all quarters. The wounded sat up as best they could and joined in the jubilation, and then pandemonium again broke out in every street of the city; for the victorious troops straightway got out of hand. They poured in a torrent through the streets of Badajoz, rifling the houses, and, breaking into the cabarets, helped themselves to the wines of Spain. That early morning, in fact, discovered a terrible situation in the fortress; for of order there was none. Drunken soldiers staggered over the pavements committing violence everywhere, while as many more were pillaging or doing actual violence to the unfortunate inhabitants. And all that while Tom Clifford lay on the slope of the breach which with many another gallant soul he had endeavoured to storm. Regiments passed over him. The surgeons and their bearers came and went in search of the wounded, and passed him always. For Tom lay stark and still. With his face half-buried in the torn tunic of a soldier who had died while doing his duty, and his limbs curled up as if he were asleep, he lay without a movement, appearing not even to breathe, lifeless to those who cast a casual glance at him. "Dead!" groaned Jack and Andrews when at length they found him. "Killed by the mine which wiped out every man of 'the forlorn hope.' Poor Tom!" "Breathing!" shouted Alfonso, who also accompanied him. "I tell you he is still alive." That brought them all about him, and within a few minutes our hero was being carried from the breach. But was he living still? Was Badajoz to see the end of a promising career, and put a stop to his quest? Or would Tom Clifford appear upon the scenes again, and still have something to say to the rascal who had abducted both father and uncle? CHAPTER XV Round about Badajoz