three M’s”—­the curate Merino, Mina and Mendizabal.  Of these, the curate was about the biggest scoundrel in Spain.  I learned on my way that having lately taken about a hundred prisoners near Aranda, he had hanged the lot, sixty to avenge three members of the local junta put to death by the French, and the rest in proportion of ten for every soldier of his lost in the action.  From dealing with such a blackguard I prayed to be spared.  And by all accounts Mina ran him close for brutal ferocity.  I hoped, therefore, for Mendizabal, but at Sedano I heard that Bonnet, after foiling an attack by him on a convoy above Burgos, had beaten him into the Asturias, where his scattered bands were now shifting as best they could among the hills.  Merino was in no better case, and my only hope rested on Mina, who after a series of really brilliant operations, helped out by some lucky escapes, had on the 7th with five thousand men planted himself in ambush behind Vittoria, cut up a Polish regiment, and mastered the same enormous convoy which had escaped the curate and Mendizabal at Burgos, releasing no less than four hundred Spanish prisoners and enriching himself to the tune of a million francs, not to speak of carriages, arms, stores, and a quantity of church plate.

This was no cheerful hearing, since so much in his pocket must needs lessen the attractiveness of my offer of twelve thousand francs.  And, indeed, when I found him in his camp above the road a little to the east of Salvatierra his first answer was to bid me go to the devil.  Although for months he had only supported his troops on English money conveyed through Sir Howard Douglas, this ignorant fellow snapped his dirty fingers at the mention of Wellington and, flushed with a casual triumph, had nothing but contempt for the allied troops who were saving his country while he and his like wasted themselves on futile raids.  I can see him now as he sat smoking and dangling his legs on a rock in the midst of his unwashed staff officers.

“For an Englishman,” he scoffed, “I won’t say but twelve thousand francs is a high price to pay.  Unfortunately, it is no price for my troops to earn.  Here am I expecting at any moment a convoy which is due from the Valencia side, and Lord Wellington asks me to waste my men and miss my chance for the sake of a single redcoat.  He must be a fool.”

Said I, nettled, “For a Spaniard you have certainly acquired a rare suit of manners.  But may I suggest that their rarity will scarcely prove worth the cost when your answer comes to Lord Wellington’s ears.”

He glared at me for a moment, during which no doubt he weighed the temptation of shooting me against the probable risk.  Then his features relaxed into a grin, and withdrawing the chewed cigarette from his teeth he spat very deliberately on the ground.  “The interview,” he announced, “is ended.”