"Oh, I trust he has escaped; 'twere a thousand pities if so sprightly a soldado should be injured."
"On my word, if you take so great an interest in this rash Frenchman, I shall feel quite jealous."
"You have no reason, senor. I tell you I never wish to see his face again, though it is a very handsome one," responded the donna with an air of pique, while a purple blush crossed her features. "Holy Mary, would I had my veil here! To be thus gazed at—"
"Here comes one may give us some information. Macdonald, where is the French commandant,—D'Estouville; the young man with the bear-skin cap and crimson feather?"
"With his fathers, I believe, poor fellow. He was a gallant soldier as ever drew sword," replied Alister, who at that moment came past and paid his respects to Donna Catalina, whom he was not a little surprised to see amidst the ranks of the Highlanders leaning on Ronald's arm, while her long beautiful tresses streamed about like those of some wood-nymph or goddess.
"I rejoice to see you in safety, senora. I heard of your being in the hands of the enemy,—indeed it made so deep an impression on my bon camarade, that he could not keep it a secret. Faith, Stuart," he added in a whisper, "you have picked up something more precious than a skin of Malaga, or a keg of French eau de vie."
"Stay, Alister," replied the other, with an air of displeasure; "a truce to raillery. I am sorry to see you wounded."
"A few inches of skin ripped up,—a mere nothing," said Macdonald, whose arm was slung in his sash. "I received it from the bayonet of a fine old grenadier, whom Angus Mackie has sent to his long home."
"Well, but the commandant—"
"Poor fellow! I am sorry for his fate,—he seemed so gallant and reckless."