and successful piece of daring ever witnessed.  I admired so much the spirit of the “brute bull” that I frequently, during his wild onset, shouted “Viva Quesada!” for I wished him well.  Not that I am of any political party or system.  No, no!  I have lived too long with Rommany Chals and Petulengres {9} to be of any politics save Gypsy politics; and it is well known that, during elections, the children of Roma side with both parties so long as the event is doubtful, promising success to each; and then when the fight is done, and the battle won, invariably range themselves in the ranks of the victorious.  But I repeat that I wished well to Quesada, witnessing, as I did, his stout heart and good horsemanship.  Tranquillity was restored to Madrid throughout the remainder of the day; the handful of infantry bivouacked in the Puerta del Sol.  No more cries of long live the constitution were heard; and the revolution in the capital seemed to have been effectually put down.  It is probable, indeed, that had the chiefs of the moderado party but continued true to themselves for forty-eight hours longer, their cause would have triumphed, and the revolutionary soldiers at the Granja would have been glad to restore the Queen Regent to liberty, and to have come to terms, as it was well known that several regiments, who still continued loyal, were marching upon Madrid.  The moderados, however, were not true to themselves; that very night their hearts failed them, and they fled in various directions.  Isturitz and Galiano to France; and the Duke of Rivas to Gibraltar:  the panic of his colleagues even infected Quesada, who, disguised as a civilian, took to flight.  He was not, however, so successful as the rest, but was recognised at a village about three leagues from Madrid, and cast into prison by some friends of the constitution.  Intelligence of his capture was instantly transmitted to the capital, and a vast mob of the nationals, some on foot, some on horseback, and others in cabriolets, instantly set out.  “The nationals are coming,” said a paisano to Quesada.  “Then,” said he, “I am lost,” and forthwith prepared himself for death.

There is a celebrated coffee-house in the Calle d’Alcala at Madrid, capable of holding several hundred individuals.  On the evening of the day in question, I was seated there, sipping a cup of the brown beverage, when I heard a prodigious noise and clamour in the street; it proceeded from the nationals, who were returning from their expedition.  In a few minutes I saw a body of them enter the coffee-house marching arm in arm, two by two, stamping on the ground with their feet in a kind of measure, and repeating in loud chorus as they walked round the spacious apartment, the following grisly stanza:-

“Que es lo que abaja
Por aquel cerro? 
Ta ra ra ra ra. 
Son los huesos de Quesada,
Que los trae un perro —
Ta ra ra ra ra.” {10}

“What down the hill comes hurrying there? —
With a hey, with a ho, a sword, and a gun! 
Quesada’s bones, which a hound doth bear. —
Hurrah, brave brothers!—­the work is done.”