"And imperfectly conceals that they are a ragged one," said she. "Had I old Moodie at my elbow, he would remind me that 'drowsiness shall clothe a man in rags.'"
Observing Cranfield gazing round the square with much interest, she said: "You must be quite familiar with this place."
"I shall never forget the occasion on which I saw it first," he answered. "I was one of two engineers attached on the assault to General Walker's brigade. While Picton was scaling the castle walls, and crowds of our brave fellows were dying in the breaches, we succeeded in forcing our way into the place over the bastion of San Vincente. Hard work we had of it, and the fight did not end there; for the enemy stubbornly disputed bastion after bastion on our flank, and our commander fell on the ramparts covered with so many wounds that his living seemed a miracle. The detachment I was with pushed forward into the town. The streets were empty, but brilliantly illuminated, and no person was to be seen; yet a low buzz and whisper was heard around; lattices were now and then opened, and from time to time shots were fired from underneath the doors by the Spaniards—"
"The French, you mean," said Lady Mabel.
"No; the Spaniards," persisted Cranfield. "And perhaps our talking friend there was one of them."
"Don Alonso is an Andalusian and a patriot," said Lady Mabel; "and I will not have him so traduced."
"Be it so," replied Cranfield. "It is lucky for your patriot that he was not here. However, the troops, with bugles sounding, advanced up yonder street into this square, and we captured several mules going with ammunition to the trenches. But the square was empty and silent as the streets, and the houses as bright with lamps; a terrible enchantment seemed to be in operation; for we saw nothing but light, and heard nothing but the low whispers around us, while the tumult at the breach was like the crashing thunder. There, though the place was already carried on two sides, by Picton's column and ours, the murderous conflict still raged; we still heard the shots, and shouts, and infernal uproar, while hundreds and hundreds fell and died after fierce assault and desperate resistance were alike vain. We pushed on that way to take the garrison in reserve, but our weak battalion was repulsed by their reserve, and some time elapsed before the French found out that Badajoz had changed hands."
"But it was ours!" exclaimed Lady Mabel, "though too dearly bought."
"The carnage was dreadful," said Cranfield; "and when the full extent of that night's havoc became known to Lord Wellington, the firmness of his nature gave way for a moment, and the pride of conquest yielded to a passionate burst of grief at the loss of his gallant soldiers.—Then came the voe victis," continued Cranfield. "We do not like to dwell on the wild and desperate wickedness which Badajoz witnessed on becoming ours. By the by, just where we stand stood the gallows."
"The gallows!" Lady Mabel exclaimed, stepping back from the polluted spot. "You could not hang the French. Did you hang the Spaniards who had fired on you."