On the road across the river a squadron of lancers was moving northward.

“Hallo!” thought I, “here’s a reconnaissance of some importance.”  But deciding that any show of inquisitiveness would be out of place under the eyes of the patrols, I kept my course parallel with the river’s, at perhaps 300 yards distance from it.  This brought me to the first pool, and there I had no sooner deposited my bottle and tin box on the brink than beyond the screen of the town wall came pushing the head of a column of infantry.

Decidedly here was something to think over.  The column unwound itself in clouds of yellow dust—­a whole brigade; then an interval, then another dusty column—­two brigades!  Could Marmont be planning against Trant the very coup which Trant had planned against him?  Twenty miles—­it could be done before daybreak; and the infantry (I had seen at the first glance) were marching light.

I do not know to this day if any leeches inhabit the pools outside Sabugal.  It is very certain that I discovered none.  About a quarter of a mile ahead of me and about the same distance back from the river there stood a ruinous house which had been fired, but whether recently or by the French I could not tell; once no doubt the country villa of some well-to-do townsman, but now roofless, and showing smears of black where the flames had licked its white outer walls.  Towards this I steered my way cautiously, that behind the shelter of an outbuilding I might study the receding brigades at my leisure.

The form of the building was roughly a hollow square enclosing a fair-sized patio, the entrance of which I had to cross to gain the rearward premises and slip out of sight of the patrols.  The gate of this entrance had been torn off its hinges and now lay jammed aslant across the passage; beyond it the patio lay heaped with bricks and rubble, tiles, and charred beams.  I paused for a moment and craned in for a better look at the debris.

And then the sound of voices arrested me—­a moment too late.  I was face to face with two French officers, one with a horse beside him.  They saw me, and on the instant ceased talking and stared; but without changing their attitudes, which were clearly those of two disputants.  They stood perhaps four paces apart.  Both were young men, and the one whose attitude most suggested menace I recognised as a young lieutenant of a line regiment (the 102nd) whom I had shaved that morning.  The other wore the uniform of a staff officer, and at the first glance I read a touch of superciliousness in his indignant face.  His left hand held his horse’s bridle, his other he still kept tightly clenched while he stared at me.

“What the devil do you want here?” demanded the lieutenant roughly in bad Portuguese.  “But, hallo!” he added, recognising me, and turned a curious glance on the other.

“Who is it?” the staff officer asked.

“It’s a barber; and I believe something of a surgeon.  That’s so, eh?” He appealed to me.