Accordingly I made my way south to Castello Branco and reached it on the 18th, to find Lord Wellington arrived there and making ready to push on as soon as overtaken by the bulk of his troops.  I had always supposed him to cherish a peculiar liking for my kinsman, but was fairly astonished by the emotion he showed.

“Rescued?  Of course he must be rescued!” He broke off to use (I must confess) some very strong words upon Trant’s design against Marmont and the tomfoolery, as he called it, which had taken me into Sabugal, and left a cloud of suspicion hanging over “the best scouting officer in my service; the only man of the lot, sir, who knows his business.”  Lord Wellington could, when he lost his temper, be singularly unjust.  I strove to point out that my “tomfoolery” in Sabugal had as a matter of fact put a stop to the very scheme of General Trant’s which he condemned.  He cut me short by asking if I proposed to argue with him.

“Ride back, sir.  Choose the particular blackguard who can effect your purpose, and inform him that on the day he rescues Captain McNeill I am his debtor for twelve thousand francs.”

The speech was ungracious enough, but the price more than I had dared to hope for.  Feeling pretty sure that in his lordship’s temper a word of thanks would merely invite him to consign my several members to perdition, I bowed and left him.  Twenty minutes later I was on the road and galloping north again.

Before starting from Celorico I had sent the peasant who brought news of Captain Alan’s plight back to Sabugal with instructions to discover what more he could, and bring his report to Bellomonte on my northward road not later than the 20th.  On the afternoon of the 19th when I rode into that place I could hear no news of him.  But late in the evening he arrived with word that “the great McNeill” had been sent off under escort towards Salamanca.  Of the strength of that escort he could tell me nothing, and had very wisely not stayed to inquire; he had picked up the news from camp gossip and brought it at once, rightly judging that time was more valuable to me just now than detailed information.

His news was doubly cheering; it assured me that my kinsman still lived, and also that by riding to secure Lord Wellington’s help I had not missed my opportunity.  Yet there was need to hurry, for I had not only to fetch a long circuit by difficult paths before striking the road to the Pyrenees,—­I had to find the partidas, persuade them, and get them on to the road ahead of their quarry.

I need not describe my journey at length.  I rode by Guarda, Almeida, Ledesma, keeping to the north of the main road, and travelling, not by day only, but through the better part of each night.  Beyond the ford of Tordesillas, left for the while unguarded, I was in country where at any moment I might stumble on the guerilla bands, or at least get news of them.  The chiefs most likely for my purpose were “the