"What news from Badajoz?" cried the latter.
"Glorious! glorious!" replied he, evidently in a fierce state of exultation, full of wild excitement and tumult, as one might be supposed to be who had spent such a night of accumulated horrors, while he checked with some difficulty the headlong speed of his jaded charger. "I have not a moment to spare: where are the quarters of General Hill?"
"Our troops have carried the place, then?"
"Again, again, and again the columns were repulsed with frightful slaughter; but again and again the assault was renewed, fighting as we alone can fight. Badajoz is in ruins,—but it is ours; the breaches and ditches are filled with the dead and the dying. Phillipon, retiring to fort San Christoval, surrendered his garrison prisoners of war this morning at day-break, after doing all that mortal men could do!" A cheer arose from the picquet, who crowded round.
"And our loss—"
"Four thousand killed, wounded, and missing,—rough calculation; that of the enemy five thousand."
"Nine thousand in one night!"
"A strange trade is war, truly! but a night such as the last is an era in a man's life-time. Sir Rowland's quarters, where are they?'
"The cottage yonder—"
"With the vine-covered chimney and broad eaves?"