"Presto—quick!" continued the stranger, slapping the butt of his musket; "from whence come you?"
"The British cantonments," replied Quentin, conceiving the truth to be the wisest answer to a Spaniard.
"Bueno! why didn't you say so at once?" exclaimed the other; "but what seek you here?"
"I am bearer of a despatch for Don Baltasar dc Saldos. Am I right in supposing you are one of his people?"
"Si, senor; this is his head-quarters."
By this time Quentin had come close to the questioner, who still kept his bayonet at the charge, and who seemed to be a Spanish peasant, accoutred with crossbelts and cartridge-box. He was posted on the summit of a hastily-constructed earthwork, which was formed across the road in a kind of gorge through which it passed; and there, too, were in position three brass field-pieces, French apparently, loaded no doubt with grape or canister to sweep the steep and narrow approach.
Beside them lounged a guard of some forty men or so, muffled in their cloaks, smoking or sleeping, but all of whom sprang to their feet and to their weapons as Quentin approached. He had now taken off his grey coat to display his scarlet uniform, and, when one of the guard held up a lantern to take a survey of him, loud vivas and mutterings of satisfaction and welcome greeted him on all sides.
"Senors, where shall I find Don Baltasar?" he inquired.
"At his quarters in the puebla, senor. Lazarillo, conduct the senor to De Soldas," said one who seemed to exercise some authority over the rest: "but I fear you will find him busy at present. At what time are those French prisoners to be despatched?"
"Midnight, Senor Conde," replied he whom he had named Lazarillo.