"Who is he?" enquired Herrera.
"Baltasar de Villabuena, an old captain of our's before the war. He resigned when Zumalacarregui took the field, and joined the Carlists, and it seems they've made him a colonel. A surly, ill-conditioned cur he always was, or we should not be standing here without a word of kindness or consolation to offer him."
To the surprise of the guardsmen, Herrera, before the officer had done speaking, walked up to the prisoner in question.
"Colonel Villabuena?" said he, slightly touching his cap.
"That is my name," replied the prisoner, sullenly.
"We met yesterday, I believe," said Herrera, with cold politeness. "If I am not mistaken, you commanded the squadron which charged mine in the early part of the retreat."
Baltasar nodded assent.
"Is your horse amongst those yonder?" continued Herrera.
"It is," replied Baltasar, who, without comprehending the drift of these questions, began to entertain hopes that his rank and former comradeship with many officers of the Christino army were about to obtain him an indulgence rarely accorded, during that war, to prisoners of any grade—the captured Carlists being looked upon by their adversaries rather as rebels and malefactors than as prisoners of war, and treated accordingly. He imagined that his horse was about to be restored to him, and that he would be allowed to ride to Pampeluna.
"Yonder bay stallion," said he, "with a black sheepskin on the saddle, is mine."