"Soult is a most indefatigable fool," said Stuart. "He causes his soldiers to fight needlessly. Poor fellows! they must obey their orders; but what benefit is gained, even if this solitary picquet is cut off? The actions at the Pyrenees and before Pampeluna might have taught the 'Lieutenant of the Emperor' a little experience."
"I dare say," said Macpherson, "they are within range now."
"Well, then, we will enjoy some shooting with them," replied his captain. "Line the loop-holes,—aim steadily; every bullet is worth its weight in gold to-night. They are twenty to one, but care not for that! Help is at hand."
"Get into yer places, lads," said Serjeant Duncan Macrone, "and mind ye ta level low, and gie them ta cauld kail o' Vittoria het again. Got pless us; but this nicht is cauld eneuch ta freeze ta fery Ness."
The discharge of forty musquets almost shook the frail block-house to pieces; and while those soldiers who had fired withdrew to reload, forty others took their places; and thus a rapid and constant fire was maintained against the enemy, blazing around the redoubt and flashing incessantly from every loop-hole. The summit of the hill was enveloped in clouds of smoke streaked with red fire, and the echoes of the musquetry sounded like peals of thunder, booming through the clear atmosphere and echoing among the surrounding peaks. Deadly execution was done among the advancing foe, whose killed and wounded were seen lying prostrate on the frozen snow, and marking the route up the hill by a series of black spots. Nevertheless, although their numbers were diminishing at every step, the main body continued to advance with unabated ardour, formed in a wide half-circle at extended order, returning as well as they could the fire of their adversaries, upon whose place of concealment their shot came every instant, tearing away huge splinters or sinking deep into the stockade with a dull heavy sound; but only a single bullet, during a hot contest of two hours, entered the block-house. It passed through a loophole, and wounded a Highlander named Allan Warristoun in the neck, passing through his leather stock, and he sunk on the ground bleeding profusely; but Chisholm attempted to stanch the blood, by dressing the wound as well as circumstances would permit. This was the only casualty that occurred during that night's skirmish, but terrible execution was done among the enemy. They were kept completely at bay, until they became wearied and disheartened by the slaughter made among them. The light-company being excellent marksmen, every shot they fired told fatally on the assailants, at whom they could aim unseen with the utmost coolness and precision. After enduring that sort of work for nearly two hours, they retired with the utmost expedition on perceiving a strong body of Spanish guerillas advancing up the mountains from the village of Roncesvalles. A little further off was seen the brigade of General Walker, which the noise of the firing had summoned to arms; but their appearance was needless, as the conflict was over.
"Here comes Mina,—the king of Navarre!" exclaimed Stuart, as the great mob of guerillas came rushing up the mountains with shouts of "Viva Ferdinand! Long live Spain!" &c. "Cease firing, lads, and let the French retreat. Poor devils! we have mauled them sadly. They are lying as thick as blackberries on the hill-side." In less than half an hour the French had disappeared, and the block-house was surrounded by the bold guerillas, their appetite for blood and plunder having been keenly whetted by the report of the musquetry.
"Let those who have watches and any loose pesetas in their purses, look well to them," said Chisholm, laughing. "Here come the honest soldiers of General Mina, who is said to be often a little upon the picaro himself."
"The licht-fingered loon will be waur than ony warlock, gin he gets his neive into my sporran molloch!" said Iverach, clasping the fox's mouth of his Highland purse.
"Or mine," said Sergeant Macrone. "Ta will pe gettin' plenty cauld iron, but no a prass podle frae me, Got tam!"
"The bonnets! the bonnets! Gude guide us, look at the blue bonnets!" exclaimed the Highlanders, astonished at the head-dress of the Biscayan guerillas, who wore flat blue caps, like those of the Scottish peasantry. Daylight had now dawned, and withdrawing the barricading from the door of the picquet-house, Stuart issued forth amidst the guerillas, who were busy stripping the French; and long practice had rendered their fingers so nimble, that in ten minutes the numerous bodies lying strewed around the position were, like those at Maya, denuded of every article of clothing. Many of the wounded were also stripped, and perished miserably on the frozen snow. Like all the Spanish peasantry, the guerillas were stout and handsome men, from Guipuscoa, Alava, and Biscaya. Nearly all wore the zammarra, or jacket of black sheep-skin, knee breeches, and abarcas, or shoes of hog-skin tied to the feet like sandals. All wore the broad Basque cap, and were armed to the teeth with musquets, pistols, pikes, poniards, and offensive weapons of every kind, which, with their huge whiskers and moustaches, gave them the appearance of a desperate horde of bandits. Their language, the Lingua Bascongado, or Bascuence, as the Spaniards name it, sounded strange to the ear of Ronald, who had been accustomed to the pure and sonorous language of the Castiles. That of the Basques, according to their own account, existed before the building of the tower of Babel, and was brought into Spain by Jubal,—an assertion somewhat difficult to prove.