A Spanish peasant, who had witnessed the battle, brought the tidings to Llerena, which was illuminated in consequence; and a huge bonfire, lighted by the 36th regiment, blazed from the summit of San Bernardo.
When news of the victory obtained at Salamanca reached Marshal Soult, he raised the siege of Cadiz and retreated towards Cordova, leaving his cannon and ammunition in the hands of the British. He drew off all his troops from Estremadura, in consequence of which the presence of the second division was no longer requisite in that province: hence the unexpected route for Aranjuez. Gladly they bade farewell to Don Benito, turning their faces towards Castile—the famous and romantic Castile,—of old the land of the warrior and troubadour, of love and chivalry, "of battle and of song."
At Truxillo Ronald had the pleasure of again seeing his friend the Capitan Conquesta, who presented him to his newly-wedded bride, Donna Maria, with whose history the reader is already acquainted. Ronald spent a very pleasant evening with the cavalier, who, for his edification, fought over again the campaigns of Buenos Ayres, enriched with many episodes, in which he himself, and "that stout and honourable cavalier the General Liniers," acted prominent parts.
At Truxillo Stuart was appointed one of the lieutenants of the light company, an alteration which he considered no small compliment, as the smartest fellows alone are selected for the flank companies. On marching past the convent walls of Jarciejo, they were greeted by many a viva from the nuns, who waved their white kerchiefs from the grated loop-holes to the troops, who replied to them by loud cheers, each corps making the old walls shake as they came up in succession. Ronald's heart was, perhaps, the saddest there among thirty thousand men. It was impossible to be otherwise than sorrowful, when so near the tomb of the high-souled and noble Catalina. The same evening they crossed the Tagus at Almarez, by a pontoon bridge. It was with mingled feelings of pride and veneration that the three regiments of the first brigade passed the spot, where so many brave comrades had found a soldier's last resting-place. The ruined forts were now overhung with wild weeds and grass; the wall-flower, the honeysuckle, and ivy clung to the embrasures of fort Napoleon, and nodded on the remnant of the old tower of Ragusa. In some places a fleshless bone projecting from the sod bore witness of the hasty interment received by the dead. On descending from the pass of Miravete they came in sight of Almarez, its rocks, and woods, and winding river, just as the broad setting sun went down in all its glory. A loud and exulting cheer burst from the bonneted Highlanders, and was carried along the column to the rear, reverberated a thousand times among the splintered peaks and frowning craigs of the Lina. The bands of the 50th, the 71st, and 92nd regiments struck up the "British Grenadiers;" and thus they passed in their glitter and pride, with drums beating and colours flying, above the sod that covered the breast of many a gallant comrade. It was a proud time for the first brigade; and while their hearts throbbed quicker to the "spirit-stirring" roll of the drum, or swell of the merry bugle, they forgot not that they trod near the tomb of those who heard their notes no more.
Two days afterwards the troops occupied the town of Calzada de Orepesa, in the midst of which stood an old baronial fortalice, or square embattled tower, which was garrisoned by a party of Don Salvador de Zagala's guerilla corps. Soon after seeing his light company dismissed to their several billets, Ronald, on passing this keep, was surprised to hear his name eagerly and distinctly called by some one within it; and on looking up at its huge gloomy front, beheld a hand beckoning to him through a narrow loop-hole, which was cut at the top and bottom for the ejection of arrows in the olden time. Who could be thus imprisoned here, and acquainted with his name, he was utterly at a loss to conjecture; but he turned to the guard of guerillas, who lay reposing on the earth in a cool shady place, under the masses of wild vines which straggled over the barbican wall, smoking cigars and burnishing their arms, which, as well as their dress, were of so motley a kind as to remind Ronald of his old acquaintances in the wood of La Nava. All wore the red military cockade of Spain fastened to the front of their broad hats or slouching caps.
On inquiring who was imprisoned in the tower, they replied a ladrone or thief, and brought to him a guerilla, whom they dignified with the title of Senor el Castellano, i.e. the constable or governor of the castle, a huge-headed, broad-shouldered, brawny, and muscular fellow, who had evidently been a muleteer, but had resigned the whip and bells for the musket and poniard. He wore a pair of French epaulets on his mule-driver's jacket; a sash encircled his waist, bearing a powder-horn, and several pistols and daggers; the large plume of some staff-officer decorated his sombrero, and his followers were most of them arrayed likewise in the trappings of the slain. The castellano received Ronald with much respect, and led him through the windings and intricacies of the ancient tower, which, with its round wheel-stairs, arched passages, and narrow loopholes, reminded him of the old pile at Lochisla. From the number of doors which were unlocked by huge clanking keys in their progress, Stuart was led to expect something extraordinary, but on reaching a solitary turret chamber, when the door was thrown open what was his surprise to behold Captain de Mesmai, whom he supposed to be in the castle of Albuquerque. He was miserably altered, and Ronald, while he beheld him, became filled with pity and indignation—pity for his situation, and indignation at the ungenerous Spaniards. His blue uniform had been stripped of its lace, epaulets, stars, and medals, and hung about him in tatters, showing his skin in many places. A guerilla on sentry at the door had appropriated the helmet and corslet of the 10th to himself. De Mesmai had been plundered of his boots, and his feet were in a miserable state in consequence of the long marches the guerillas had compelled him to make. He was thin and gaunt, and a beard of a week's growth bristled upon his chin; but there was the same merry devil-may-care twinkle in his eye, which showed that his bold and buoyant heart was yet unchanged.
"Vive la bagatelle—Hoa! Vive la joie!" cried he, springing forward and clasping Ronald in his arms with true French energy, "My dear friend, you may judge how glad I am to see you. I shall now be rescued from the brutality of these base and accursed Spanish dogs." As this was said in Spanish, lightning gleamed in the eyes of Castellano, who stood by. He grasped the hilt of his poniard, but relinquished it as Ronald's fiery and threatening glance fell on him. Yet he scowled malignantly at De Mesmai as he withdrew his hand.
"Ah, Stuart, mon ami! of what I have suffered at the hands of these guerillas you can form no idea. I have been plundered as you see: I have been beaten, kicked, even spat upon. Mon Dieu! such treatment for a gentleman and soldier of France! I have been locked up in this desolate stone chamber for four nights and days, during which not one morsel of food has passed my lips."
"Rascal! do you dare to treat an honourable prisoner of war, thus?" exclaimed Ronald, turning to the Spaniard, who bestowed a sullen look upon him, but made no reply.
"I fully expected that before this," continued De Mesmai, "D'Erlon would have made some effort to effect my exchange. The devil confound him! I will revenge myself on him for his forgetfulness, by being doubly sweet to madame, his dear little countess, whose fortunate cher ami I have the honour to be. Diable! what would the 10th cuirassiers,—the pets of the Parisian ladies,—the dandies and glory of the Bouvelards, say, could they see me in this plight? Faith, I believe a dozen girls in the Rue des Trois Maries would run crazy, could they know of it. Diablement! shirtless and shoeless,—and with a coat as holy as that of Monseigneur St. Denis, which hangs in the aisle of the old church of Besançon. Look at me, Monsieur Stuart; your allies, the guerillas, have done all this. But I will revenge myself on D'Erlon, and garnish his empty old head with certain ornaments which shall be nameless,—I will, by the name of the bomb!"