the French cavalry retiring slowly down the hill scarcely 500 yards ahead of the Portuguese militia, now pouring forth from the gateway.  These were at once checked and formed up in front of the town, the French still retiring slowly, with a few English dragoons hanging on their heels.  A few shots only were exchanged, apparently without damage.  The man assured me that the whole 400 or 500 troopers passed within a hundred yards of him and so down the slope and out of his sight.

What had happened was this:  Marmont, impatient at the delay of his two brigades of infantry (which by some bungle in the starting did not reach the foot of the mountain before daylight), had pushed his horsemen up the hill and managed to cut off and silence the outposts without their firing a shot.  Encouraged by this he pressed on to the very gates of the town, and had actually entered the street when the alarm was sounded—­and by whom?  By a single drummer whom General Trant, distrusting the watchfulness of his militia, had posted at his bedroom door!  Trant’s servant entering with his coffee at daybreak brought a report that the French were at the gates; the drummer plied his sticks like a madman; other drummers all over the town caught up their sticks and tattooed away without the least notion of what was happening; the militia ran helter-skelter to their alarm post; and the French marshal, who might have carried the town at a single rush and without losing a man, turned tail!  Such are the absurdities of war.

But in fancy I sometimes complete the picture and see myself, in French staff officer’s dress, boldly riding up to the head of the French infantry column and in the name of the, Duke of Ragusa commanding its general to halt.  True, I did not know the password—­which might have been awkward.  But a staff officer can swagger through some small difficulties, as I had already proved twice that night.  But for the stumble of a horse—­who knows?  The possibility seems to me scarcely more fantastic than the accident which actually saved Guarda.

III

THE PAROLE

Marmont’s night attack on Guarda, though immediately and even absurdly unsuccessful, did, in fact, convince Trant that the hill was untenable, and he at once attempted to fall back upon Celorico across the river Mondego, where lay Lord Wellington’s magazines and very considerable stores, for the moment quite unprotected.

Marmont had from four to six thousand horsemen and two brigades of infantry.  The horse could with the utmost ease have headed Trant off and trotted into Celorico while the infantry fell on him, and but for the grossest blundering the militia as a fighting force should have been wiped out of existence.  But blunders dogged Marmont throughout this campaign.  Trant and Wilson marched their men (with one day’s provisions only) out of Guarda and down the long slopes toward the river.  Good order was kept for three