“This old alcalde at Banos, I found out, was quite spoiled by Lord Wellington. He used to read all the general orders, and got an absurd notion in his head that because we were his allies, we were not allowed to plunder. Only think, he used to snap his fingers at Beresford, didn’t care twopence about the legion, and laughed outright at Wilson. So, when I was ordered down there, I took another way with him. I waited till night-fall, ordered two squadrons to turn their jackets, and sent forward one of my aides-de-camp, with a few troopers, to the alcalde’s house. They galloped into the courtyard, blowing trumpets and making an infernal hubbub. Down came the alcalde in a passion. ‘Prepare quarters quickly, and rations for eight hundred men.’
“‘Who dares to issue such an order?’ said he.
“The aide-de-camp whispered one word in his ear, and the old fellow grew pale as death. ‘Is he here; is he coming,—is he coming?’ said he, trembling from head to foot.
“I rode in myself at this moment looking thus,—
“‘Où est le malheureux?’ said I, in French,—you know I speak French like Portuguese.”
“Devilish like, I’ve no doubt,” muttered Power.
“‘Pardon, gracias eccellenza!’ said the alcalde, on his knees.”
“Who the deuce did he take you for, Major?”
“You shall hear; you’ll never guess, though. Lord, I shall never forget it! He thought I was Marmont; my aide-de-camp told him so.”
One loud burst of laughter interrupted the major at this moment, and it was some considerable time before he could continue his narrative.