“At the gate below,” I panted, “they sighted him; and he made for the river—­tried to swim it.  Run out your men and bring them along to search the bank!”

He began to shout orders.  I galloped through the gate and hailed the sentry at the tete du pont.  “A spy!” I shouted—­“in the river.  Keep your eyes open if he makes the bank!”

The fellow drew aside, and I clattered past him with a dozen soldiers at my heels fastening their belts and looking to their muskets as they ran.  Once over the bridge I headed to the right again along the left bank of the river.

“This way!  This way!  Keep your eyes open!”

I was safe now.  In the rapidly falling dusk, still increasing the distance between us, I led them down past the town and opposite the astonished patrols on the meadow bank.  Even then, when I wheeled to the left and galloped for the high road, it did not occur to them to suspect me, nor shall I ever know when first it dawned on them that they had been fooled.  Certainly not a shot was sent after me, and I settled down for a steady gallop northward, pleasantly assured of being at least twenty minutes ahead of any effective pursuit.

I was equally well assured of overtaking the brigades, but my business, of course, was to avoid and get ahead of them.  And with this object, after an hour’s brisk going, I struck a hill-track to the left which, as I remembered (having used it on my journey from Badajoz), at first ran parallel with the high road for two miles or more and then cut two considerable loops which the road followed along the valley bottom.

Recent rains had unloosed the springs on the mountain side and set them chattering so loudly that I must have reined up at least a score of times before I detected the tramp of the brigades in the darkness below me.  Of the cavalry, though I rode on listening for at least another two miles, I could hear no sound.  Yet, as I argued, they could not be far distant; and I pushed forward with heart elate at the prospect of trumping Marmont’s card, for I remembered the staff officer’s words, “on the marshal’s return.”  I knew that Marmont had been in Sabugal no longer ago than mid-day; and irregular and almost derogatory as it might be thought for a marshal of France to be conducting a night surprise against a half-disciplined horde of militia, I would have wagered my month’s pay that this was the fact.

And then, with a slip of my horse on the stony track, my good fortune suddenly ended, and smash went my basket of eggs while I counted the chickens.  The poor brute with one false step came down heavily on his near side.  Quick as I was in flinging my foot from the stirrup, I was just a moment too late; I fell without injury to bone, but his weight pinned me to earth by the boot, and when I extricated myself it was with a wrenched ankle.  I managed to get him to his feet, but he had either dislocated or so severely wrung his near shoulder that he could scarcely walk a step.  It went to my heart to leave him there on the mountain side, but it had to be done, for possibly the fate of the garrison at Guarda depended on it.