For, along the road which I have described, there came these very dogs, thirty or forty of them, white and brown, each with its tail at the same angle, like the bayonets of the Old Guard.  My faith, but it was a pretty sight!  And behind and amidst them there rode three men with peaked caps and red coats, whom I understood to be the hunters.  After them came many horsemen with uniforms of various kinds, stringing along the roads in twos and threes, talking together and laughing.  They did not seem to be going above a trot, and it appeared to me that it must indeed be a slow fox which they hoped to catch.  However, it was their affair, not mine, and soon they had all passed my window and were out of sight.  I waited and I watched, ready for any chance which might offer.

Presently an officer, in a blue uniform not unlike that of our flying artillery, came cantering down the road—­an elderly, stout man he was, with grey side-whiskers.  He stopped and began to talk with an orderly officer of dragoons, who waited outside the inn, and it was then that I learned the advantage of the English which had been taught me.  I could hear and understand all that was said.

“Where is the meet?” said the officer, and I thought that he was hungering for his bifstek.  But the other answered him that it was near Altara, so I saw that it was a place of which he spoke.

“You are late, Sir George,” said the orderly.

“Yes, I had a court-martial.  Has Sir Stapleton Cotton gone?”

At this moment a window opened, and a handsome young man in a very splendid uniform looked out of it.

“Halloa, Murray!” said he.  “These cursed papers keep me, but I will be at your heels.”

“Very good, Cotton.  I am late already, so I will ride on.”

“You might order my groom to bring round my horse,” said the young general at the window to the orderly below, while the other went on down the road.  The orderly rode away to some outlying stable, and then in a few minutes there came a smart English groom with a cockade in his hat, leading by the bridle a horse—­and, oh, my friends, you have never known the perfection to which a horse can attain until you have seen a first-class English hunter.  He was superb:  tall, broad, strong, and yet as graceful and agile as a deer.  Coal black he was in colour, and his neck, and his shoulder, and his quarters, and his fetlocks—­how can I describe him all to you?  The sun shone upon him as on polished ebony, and he raised his hoofs in a little, playful dance so lightly and prettily, while he tossed his mane and whinnied with impatience.  Never have I seen such a mixture of strength and beauty and grace.  I had often wondered how the English Hussars had managed to ride over the Chasseurs of the Guards in the affair at Astorga, but I wondered no longer when I saw the English horses.