"Lumsden of the 95th."
"Gad, it's the fellow himself. Come and show yourself, you daredevil! Where in the world have you been?"
"Into Rueda and back, sir," said Jack, saluting.
"And what the blazes have you been doing there?"
"Taking stock, sir. There are a hundred French in the town, cavalry and infantry mixed, and they're all hard at it with drink and cards."
"The deuce they are! No sentries, eh?"
"A few in a cabin this side of the town, sir, but they're busy at the same game."
"Are they, begad? Seymour, we'll collar this little lot. We were coming to rescue your dead body, young man, and you've disappointed us. Ride back, there, and tell the squadron to hurry. We'll draw first blood to-night."
Ten minutes later the whole squadron of 250 men of the 18th Light Dragoons, General Stewart himself in command, were on their way to Rueda. Jack rode ahead by the general's side—no longer in French uniform, for when the squadron arrived on the scene Kelly came forward and said:
"Brought these, sir; thought you might want 'em."