But though the English were by this time reduced to only nineteen thousand—three thousand having gone by another route to Vigo, and many having fallen out by the way—yet Soult with his far superior numbers did not respond. Lack of provisions made it impossible for Moore to delay longer; and however willing he was to fight, he would not himself force a battle.
While in the neighbourhood of Lugo, Roy found time to add a few words to his unfinished letter:—
"Jan. 7th, near Lugo.—We had a sharp brush with the enemy; and I am sorely put about, for Jack has vanished. When last I set eyes on him he was well in advance of his company, waving his sword, and shouting to us to come on. And come on we did, and put the enemy to rout. Jack may have fallen into their hands. Bob and I, with Napier, searched in every direction, both among those who were wounded and those that had been killed. But, thank God! Jack was not among them. He must, therefore, surely be prisoner. This sheet I will not send off, even should opportunity occur, until I can know more as to Jack. I would not awake Polly's fears for nought; and it may be that he will even yet turn up, unharmed."
Roy wrote these words by the light of a small lamp, lying flat upon the ground, in a small hut which he and Bob occupied while at Lugo. Some slight movement, as of one coming in, made him glance up with a spring of hope. It might be only Bob, but he still thought first of Jack.
A tall cloaked figure quietly entered. Roy leaped to his feet as if he had had an electric shock, his bewildered gaze encountering the last face that he would at that moment have expected to see. It was a face pale, tried, and stern, with the dark steadfast eyes which never yet had flinched before life's battles. They did not flinch now, meeting this heaviest of all trials to one of Moore's temperament—having to retire before his Country's foes.
The last three years had brought sharp discipline to John Moore. Strain had followed strain, disappointment had followed disappointment; while through all his dauntless courage had never failed, his unconquerable spirit had risen superior to every opposition. But the sufferings of his men upon this march went to his very heart; and the partial loss of discipline, in a force of which he had been so justly proud, cut him to the quick. Despite the worst, he was not calm only, but serene. Yet now and again, as at this moment, a shadow of deep though fleeting sadness would fall upon him. Something in that face appealed keenly to the young Ensign's sympathies.
Then, in a flash, dread seized upon Roy. What might this call portend? Moore could rebuke his subordinates scathingly, crushingly, when necessity arose. Roy felt that death would be far preferable to any words of stern reproof from those lips. But he was distinctly not conscious of having failed in his duty. Could it perhaps mean—ill news of Jack?
Sir John glanced round before speaking.
"Not too luxurious quarters, Baron!" he remarked, and his smile lacked its usual brilliance.
