The country Spain, amidst the towering Pyrenees; the scarlet that of a British column making its way along a rugged mule-path, from which those that traversed it looked down upon a scene of earthly beauty, and upwards at the celestial blue, beyond which towered the rugged peaks where here and there patches of the past winter’s snow gleamed and sparkled in the sun.
Strategy had indicated retreat; and the black-green, tipped at collar and cuff with scarlet, of England’s rifle-regiment was covering the retiring line, when the blue-coated columns of the French General’s division had pressed on and delivered the wild volleys and scattered shots of the skirmishers which drew forth the sharp, vicious, snapping reply of the retreating rear-guard.
“At last!” said one of the riflemen, rising from where he had knelt on one knee to take cover behind a bush, and there stand driving down a cartridge with a peculiarly sharp, ringing sound of iron against iron, before finishing off with a few heavy thuds, returning the bright rod to its loops, and raising the pan of the lock to see that it was well primed with the coarse powder of the day.
“Yes—at last!” said his nearest comrade, who with a few more had halted at a subaltern’s command to wait in cover for a shot or two at their pursuing foe. “Are we going to hold this place?”
“No,” said the young officer. “Hear that, my man?” For a note or two of a bugle rang out sweet and clear in the beautiful valley, suggesting to one of the men a similar scene in an English dell; but he sighed to himself as it struck him that this was a different hunt, and that they, the men of the —th, the one rifle-regiment of the British Army, were the hunted, and that those who followed were the French.
A few more cracks from the rifles as the retreat was continued, and then the French musketry ceased; but the last of the sharpshooters obtained glimpses of the blue coats of the French coming quickly on.
“Have you sickened them, my lads?” said the young officer, as he led his men after the retreating main body of their friends.
“No, sir,” said the young private addressed; “they seem to have lost touch of us. The mule-track has led right away to the left here.”
“To be sure—yes. Then they will begin again directly. Keep your face well to the enemy, and take advantage of every bit of cover.—Here, bugler, keep close up to me.”
The sturdy-looking boy addressed had just closed up to his officer’s side when, as they were about to plunge into a low-growing patch of trees, there was another volley, the bullets pattering amongst the branches, twigs and leaves cut from above the men’s heads falling thickly.