Roy

Another tear fell.

"But we will ask Roy, and he will tell us about Denham. Perhaps he will have brought you a message from him."

"No," answered Polly. "Roy comes from Bitche, not from Verdun. 'Tis a great while since he saw them. And, Molly, you must not ask."

"Not ask!"

"Not for me. Nothing for me. How can I tell now,—so long as it is since any letter came? And no message, none at all, in the last that did come. Do you not see?"

"You mean—But Polly, you do not think Denham has changed towards you? He cannot have done so."

"I cannot tell. It may be. I am a woman, dear, and I may not be sure, without reason. In my heart, I think I do trust him. And if Roy tells—but you must not ask for me."

"Not even how Denham is?"

"Yes; that for yourself. But nothing for me."

A very different Roy soon appeared, dressed in a castoff suit of Mr. Bryce's, which, though it was by no means a perfect fit, since Roy was markedly the taller, yet shone by comparison with what he had worn before. Roy had grown very brown during his prolonged wanderings; and the dye, which it had been thought advisable to keep going so long as he remained on French soil, was still en evidence. But the face and the grey eyes were unmistakable. They had been unmistakable to Molly from the moment she saw him.

An abundant dinner, hastily heated and brought together, awaited him soon in the dining-room; and Roy confessed to a "wolfish" appetite. Molly said nothing then in allusion to Ivor. She knew that Polly would wish the subject to be avoided while Drake was present, and Drake took care to be present throughout the meal. He would not lose a single word of Roy's narration of the escape from Bitche, and the journey through France. That any Frenchman should have acted as Jean had acted, came as a positive shock to the insular prejudices of the old butler. Drake arrived at a solemn conclusion, while he listened, that some among those Mounseers over the water were not perhaps altogether bad, even though they lacked the advantages of an English "eddication."

But when dinner was over, when Roy's wants were satisfied, and when the three were together in the drawing-room, Roy in a comfortable chair, with Molly close to his side, Polly herself remarked quietly—

"And now Roy will tell us all about them at Verdun."

"Haven't seen 'em lately, you know, Polly. I wish I had. The latest news I can give you is near a year old. No, not quite the latest, but—Well, I left my father and mother all right at Verdun, last spring. Not much less than a year. Denham had been away at Valenciennes for, eighteen months. You must have heard that."

"One letter from your mother, which had been long on the road, spoke of his having been there. But no explanation. We thought he had perhaps gone thither for a few weeks."

"Eighteen months. Ordered off for nothing, and brought back in the same fashion. He got to Verdun the very day before I broke that bust, and was arrested. You know—I told you."

"Then you have not seen anything of Denham for an age?" Molly asked this.

"Pretty near two years and a half, except that one day."

"And they were all well?" Polly said.

Roy looked intently at her. Polly flushed faintly.

"Yes, I know—of course you want to hear of anything that he said. I'm trying to remember. Such a lot happened then, and I've gone through so much since. But I don't think he said much of any sort. You see he had walked the whole way from Valenciennes, giving up his horse to a man worse than himself. And he was too thoroughly dead-beat to do more than just answer questions."

Polly had turned her face away. Roy whispered, "I say, Molly, one minute,—I want a word with her."

Molly obediently fled, and Roy crossed the rug. As he expected, there were tears upon Polly's cheek.

"Polly, I want you to understand."

A hasty movement disposed of the tears, and she turned a quiet face towards him. "I think I do."

"Den is not the man to change."

"Many men do—"

"Not Den. He's not that sort."

She smiled a little. "My dear Roy, you have not seen him, except for one day, since—how long ago?"

"Yes, I know. But boys have eyes as well as girls. And I tell you, Polly, I know Denham. That year and a half before he went to Valenciennes he and I were always together. And I got to know him as—well, as nobody else does. Not even you."

She rested her chin on one hand, the soft eyes questioning Roy.

"Go on," she whispered.

"I know Den, and because I know him, I can tell you that he has not altered, and that he won't alter. It isn't in him. It doesn't make a grain of difference whether he talked or didn't talk of you that day. He was too ill; and Den doesn't talk, you know, of the things he cares most about. You ought to understand what he feels about Sir John Moore, for instance, and yet how few would guess it! Does he ever say a great deal about Sir John to people in general? And has he ever changed in that direction? No, nor ever will."

"He has a warm advocate in you."

"Because I know what he is. He didn't talk much of you, Polly, that year and a half that we were together. And I was only a boy, but all the same I understood. If anybody ever spoke your name, didn't I see his look? Just as I always saw the look in his face if anybody spoke of Sir John."

Polly brushed her hand over wet eyes.

"Sometimes I used to know that he was thinking of you all day long. How did I know? I can't tell. How does anybody know? It was just as if 'Polly' was writ large upon his face. I never could tell what made him so, only for hours he seemed to be away from us all, and 'twas little good for me to talk, for he heard scarce anything I might say."

Roy's coat-sleeve received a little squeeze. "But—so long ago!"

"What does that matter? You ought to feel sure of him. I'm not making up. Den is one of the best and truest fellows that ever lived, and when he comes home you'll see. You'll see for yourself."

She bent her head.

"Thank you, Roy. At the least I can promise to do one thing. I can wait to see."

CHAPTER XXX

SIR JOHN MOORE

So soon as the first excitement of Roy's arrival began to subside, his thoughts turned in the old direction, towards the Army.

Mr. Bryce took upon himself to act as he knew that the Colonel would have acted if able; and a brief space of time saw Roy being transformed into a smart young subaltern, in the same regiment of infantry where Jack had lately obtained his Captaincy.

"And now," Roy said, not once but a dozen times, to Molly, "the one thing in the world I want is to serve under Moore!"

"Are you in such a hurry to go away from us again?" Molly asked wistfully. But she understood, as she would not have understood five years earlier, and before Roy could speak she added,—"I know. Of course you can't help it. You must wish to go! Only I hope you won't stay away too long."

"We've got to squash Napoleon before anybody can think of stopping at home."

In the beginning of this year, 1808, Moore had returned to England from the Mediterranean, after an absence of nearly two years. Then he had his last holiday. Four months of rest were granted to the hard-worked warrior, who during thirty years had held himself at his Country's service, fighting for her in all parts of the world, and being at least four times severely wounded. At this date he was looked upon by competent judges as the foremost man in the British Army, as the one to whom, above all others, England in her hour of need would turn.

The chief part of his holiday was spent at the quiet Surrey home of his brother, with his mother and sister; and one is glad to know that he had that peaceful interlude before the stormy end. He had had much to try him, and he had gone through heavy battling of more than one description when out in Sicily.

It was during his time there, when acting second in command to old General Fox, brother of Mr. Charles Fox, Prime Minister of England, that the one love affair of Moore came about. The little tale is worth telling, though apart from the course of this story, for it says much as to the character of Moore.

Several times the assertion has been made that Sir John Moore was engaged to Lady Hester Stanhope, niece of Mr. Pitt. This is a mistake. Lady Hester was his friend, and he admired her greatly; but it was as a friend only, not as a lover. On the conclusive authority of General Anderson, who for twenty-one years was with him in the closest possible intercourse, there was but one whom Moore ever seriously wished to marry. That one was—not Lady Hester, but Caroline Fox, daughter of the old General in command at Sicily.

That the niece of Mr. Pitt should have been his most intimate woman-friend, and the niece of Mr. Fox his one and only love, reads curiously in the light of party politics. But Sir John was no party man. The great Minister, Pitt, had for him an unbounded esteem and affection on the one side. And Mr. Fox, on the other, at a time when a movement was astir to make Moore Commander-in-Chief in India, utterly refused to allow him to go. "It was impossible for him," he said, "in the state in which Europe then was, to send to such a distance a General in whom he had such entire confidence." Moore stood outside political warfare, grandly and simply, as representative of his Country.

He had many troubles in Sicily. The object of the British forces being there was to save the Sicilies from the grip of Napoleon. But the tortuous policy of their Sicilian Majesties, the entire lack of honesty and of public spirit, the underhand cabals and oppositions, the weakness and wickedness of the Queen, and the mischief made by one Englishman there, who acted throughout as Sir John's enemy, hindered far more from being done than was done.

Amid all this, however—amid the fighting, the difficulties, the trickeries, the entanglements of Sicilian politics and warfare, Moore fell deeply in love. But he did not marry. He did not even let the girl know that he loved her.

Caroline Fox was very young, not yet eighteen. Moore was already in his forty-sixth year. He did not think it right, at her age, even to give her the choice.

Whether this decision was in the abstract wise, some may question. It is at least conceivable that Caroline Fox herself was already in love with him. Had she been so, it would indeed have been sad that, from a noble sense of duty, he should have denied happiness to her as well as to himself. True, he had not sought her; but he was intimate in the house, and he was a man of extraordinarily attractive power. In such a case it does seem, from the woman's point of view, that she ought to have been allowed to say for herself either Yea or Nay.

That view does not detract from the admiration which his conduct must arouse. Sir John was not of a nature to love lightly, to give up his wishes easily. It was a hard fight. Harder far this conflict than all his battles with the soldiers of Napoleon.

Yet he conquered; and to the young girl herself he said not one word which might have encouraged her affections. To Anderson he explained his reasons with a frank and touching simplicity, the echo of which comes down to us now through ninety years and more.

"She is so young," he said. "Her judgment may be overpowered. The disparity of age is not, perhaps, at present very apparent. My position here, my reputation as a soldier of service, and my intimacy with her father, may influence her to an irretrievable error for her own future contentment. My feelings, therefore, must be suppressed, that she may not have to suppress hers hereafter, with loss of happiness."

Can anything surpass the quiet grandeur of that must?

He was a man in the prime of life, eminently handsome, accomplished, fascinating, the idol of his friends, the darling of his country, with every hope of a splendid career still before him. That such a man, when profoundly in love, should pause to view the question solely with respect to the girl's happiness, not his own—that he should humbly question whether, though he might win her, she might not in after years regret her action and wish herself free;—this, no doubt, is such a hero as has often figured in fiction. Quite an ideal hero! So some may object.

But the whole is true. There is no idealising in the question. John Moore, actually and literally, less than one hundred years ago, loved and decided thus. The grandeur of this man was that he thought always of others before himself, that he lived for duty. Where duty pointed or seemed to point down a pathway, no matter how hard and thorny the road, there unhesitatingly he walked. Questions as to the wisdom of his decision do not touch the splendour of his self-sacrificing conduct.

He never did propose for that young girl. Whether he would have done so in after years cannot now be decided. In 1806, when this hard conflict was fought out, less than three years of his fair life on earth remained.

After his four months' holiday at home—just at the close of which Roy Baron reached London—Moore was despatched on another expedition to Sweden. It was an expedition rendered especially trying to its Commander, and abortive in itself, by the crazy conduct of the King of Sweden, who, not long after, went mad and had to be deposed. Moore, when setting sail for England, wrote to his mother: "This campaign in Sweden has proved the most painful to me I ever served."

One trial followed another in these later years of his life. The heaviest of all was yet to come.

In the autumn of 1807, when Italy, Holland, Prussia, Austria, and Russia had been all either conquered or humiliated and crushed, Portugal next fell a victim to the rapacious Conqueror; and Portugal was made a steppingstone to the conquest of Spain. Before the end of May 1808, when Sir John Moore was sailing for Sweden, the French army entered Madrid, declaring the whole country subject to the Emperor of the French, and proclaiming Joseph Buonaparte king.

Then it was that the tide of Napoleon's successes reached high-water mark. From this date, it may be said, the retreat of the waters began on land, as their fall had earlier begun upon the ocean—at first imperceptibly, for a long while fitfully, yet with accelerating speed.

Again and again the Spaniards had fought on the side of the French against the English. But now at last the spell seemed to be broken; now at last their eyes were opened. "As a man," it was declared, Spain had risen against the Emperor; and a burst of enthusiasm, of generous and vehement sympathy, rushed through the length and breadth of England. A passionate longing to be led against the enemy pervaded all ranks in the Army.

By the time that Moore got home from Sweden, Sir Arthur Wellesley had already been sent to Portugal, with a force of nine thousand men; and the eleven thousand, who had returned from the fruitless errand to Sweden, were at once ordered to Portsmouth en route for Portugal.

An evening or two later Jack rushed in upon the Bryce circle, in hot haste.

"Jack! Hallo, man—what's up now? Something out of the common, to judge from the looks of you," declared Mr. Bryce, sitting near the window, in flowered waistcoat, velvet tights, and silver-buckled shoes.

"How d'you all do? How d'you do, ma'am? Find yourself well, Polly? All right, Molly? Heard the news?"

"What news?" from all four.

"Sir John Moore is ordered off to Spain. And our regiment is under orders too!"

"Oh!" from Molly. "And if Roy should be taken prisoner!"

"Or if he should not!" suggested Mr. Bryce. "Nay, child, we'll permit no doleful foretellings. What's up, jack? 'Tis no ill news to you to be ordered to the seat of war."

"Ill news, sir! No!" with sufficient energy.

"Yet you look uncommon like to a thunder-cloud. What's wrong?"

"Could wish nothing better than to go, sir. Every man in the Army is wild to be off. But I'm angry, I'll admit. 'Tis a fact that, after serving in Sicily and in Sweden as Chief in command, Sir John Moore is now to be in a subordinate position as third."

"Yet the King and the Duke of York are ever his friends," mused Mr. Bryce. "And Lord Castlereagh esteems him highly."

"So say all. But there's Sir Arthur Wellesley in command of one army, gone to Spain; and Sir John till now in command of another; and both of 'em to be under Sir Hew Dalrymple; and till he gets to Portugal, Sir Harry Burrard is to act for him. Moore—the foremost and most brilliant officer England has ever owned—to be under Burrard and Dalrymple! Has the world gone crazed? But he'll rise to the top—small fear!"

"What says Sir John himself?"

Jack's face broke into a smile.

"Well, sir, it must go no further. Sir John was summoned to the presence of Lord Castlereagh to receive orders. And those who were in waiting in the anteroom heard sounds of a stormy interview. Sir John said after to a friend—so I am told—that he had had it out with the Ministers, and he was glad he had, for he would now think no more about the matter."

"Jack, shall we soon see Roy?" asked Molly.

Jack had little doubt that Roy would look in. Everything was to be done in a terrific hurry; and he had come himself to say good-bye there and then; but Roy would certainly appear before starting for Portugal. A few minutes later he called Polly into the little boudoir, and said: "That's a brave Poll. No tears and no wailings. 'Tis as should be."

"Dear Jack, I know well how glad you are. And I would not hold you back." Polly spoke courageously, though she looked white.

"I knew well that you would bid me God-speed. And you will think of me. Think especially on Sunday—in church. Eh, dear? Polly, no letter from Verdun?"

Polly looked sadly at her brother.

"I have not writ to him lately, Jack. I cannot tell how to write. What shall I do? I have none but you to advise me. And if he should no longer care—if he should by now have forgot me?"

"He is not that sort. Trust him, Polly."

"It is so long—five years and more. And no letter from him of later date than the summer of 1806! Jack, sometimes I wonder—why does he not ask me to go out to him there. If he asked me I would go. And sure, if he indeed wished it, he might send me some little word—by some private hand—"

Jack was silent, thinking.

"And there is that French girl, whom Roy is so fond of—always with them, as one of themselves."

"But trust him still, Polly dear," urged Jack. "I cannot know, neither can you, how things are yet a while; only I do truly believe that Den is no man to change, nor to be fickle in his likings. Whether you write or do not write, trust him still!"

CHAPTER XXXI

ORDERED TO SPAIN

A FEW hours later Roy came in, wild with joy, bringing a brother-Ensign and great friend, Robert Monke, first cousin to Jack and Polly. Monke was two or three years older than Roy, but he looked two years less. He was a slight lad, fair-haired, blue-eyed, dreamy in expression. Bitche had made Roy older than his years; and Bob Monke was younger than his.

No wonder Roy was half crazy with delight. To be ordered, when barely eighteen, to the seat of war—to serve in his first campaign under Sir John Moore;—this indeed went beyond the utmost that he had dared to hope for.

"You'll write to me sometimes," pleaded Molly, clinging to him, oblivious of a pair of dreamy eyes fixed wistfully on her face. She had no attention but for Roy; not that she did not like Bob Monke, as she would have said, "quite as much as most people." But Bob had begun to want something more than the liking accorded to most people.

"And oh, Roy, don't be taken prisoner again."

"Trust me for that," laughed Roy.

"But you won't be too reckless." Molly turned to Bob. "You'll look after him, won't you? For me!"

"I'd do anything in the world for you, Molly." Bob's whole heart was in the words.

"I don't mean that you are to put yourself in danger, of course." Molly's soft heart reproached her, for not having shown concern on behalf of Bob as well. "And Roy must take care of you too. Only—"

"Only I'm ages older than Roy. I'll be sure."

"Much more likely I shall have to look after Bob. He's no end of a dreaming genius—most of his time in the clouds," laughed Roy. "Take care of yourself, Molly—and don't let Polly lose heart."

And then they were gone.

Jack had not been mistaken as to the nature of the interview which had just taken place between Sir John Moore and the Secretary of State. It had been of a stormy description.

Sir John, with all his sweetness of disposition, had a fiery temper. And though he habitually held in that temper with so firm a curb that he could be described as "the most amiable man in the British Army," yet there were times when it got the better of him. Those kind eyes could flash with a scathing light, and those lips could pour forth vehement utterances. Perhaps the thing which he was least able patiently to endure was the sense of being unjustly treated.

It may be, too, that at this moment he was physically suffering from the severe strain, not only of his late trying expedition to Sweden, but of the hardly less trying time in Sicily. He may even yet have been under something of reaction from that hard fight, when his own "feelings" had had to be, from a sense of duty, sternly repressed, for the sake of the young girl whom he loved. In a letter, written three or four days later from Portsmouth, to his mother, a note of weariness may be detected, unwonted in Moore. But Rest waited ahead, not far distant; though a fierce experience lay between.

One way or another he did wax wrathful in this interview, and he spoke out his mind with uncompromising frankness. He considered that he had been unhandsomely treated. Coming, as he did, from a chief command, if he were now to be placed in an inferior post, some explanation was his due.

"His Majesty's Ministers have a right to employ what officers they please," Sir John went on, working off his warmth. "But I have a right, in common with all officers who have served zealously, to expect to be treated with attention, and, when employment is offered, that some regard should be paid to my former services."

"I am not aware, Sir John, of having given you just cause for complaint," Castlereagh replied gravely; and he did not say much more. No one, looking on, could have imagined that this cold-mannered Secretary would, not many months later, fight a duel in defence of the fair fame of the gallant General now before him. The famous duel between Castlereagh and Canning is widely known, but its true cause, as asserted by Lady Castlereagh, is less well understood.¹

Moore had said his say, and doubtless felt relieved. He started post-haste for Portsmouth, pausing on the road for one night at his mother's country home.

The parting with her next day was sadder than usual.

¹ "Life of Sir C. Napier," by W. Napier.

Some forebodings may well have suggested themselves to the mother's heart, as she watched that manly figure pass away into the distance. He had been to her the most tender of sons; but on earth she would see him never again.

Four or five days later Moore resigned to Sir Harry Burrard the chief command. But though no longer at the head of affairs, he would still have control of his own Division; and that Division included the regiment to which Jack and Roy and Bob belonged.

Moore did not leave nearly so much to unassisted Nature as a good many generals of the day were content to do. It was his way to see and personally to influence the young officers under his command. Roy, being aware of this, was not surprised to be early summoned to his presence. Punctually at the hour named he reached Sir John's lodgings.

Sir John stood, talking to his friend Colonel Anderson, at the upper end of the room into which Roy was shown—a strangely attractive figure, alike dignified and winning, with a brow of regal breadth and power, searching luminous eyes, through which at times the whole spirit of the man seemed to shine, and well-cut sensitive lips, gentle as those of any woman in expression, while yet they could close like adamant. Roy, with one swift glance, took in the whole, and, as he did so, a vivid picture flashed up in his mind of the day, more than five years earlier, when he had seen that same face, little dreaming of all that should lie between that date and this.

Child as he had been then, he saw a change. The sharp discipline of life, especially sharp of late, had left its traces. The face was thinner, with a worn outline of cheek; and a touch of pensive gravity, even of sadness, lay deep in the hazel eyes. But this was only during silence and repose. The moment Moore spoke, his face lighted up with all its former brilliancy, while the old wonderful charm of manner was unchanged, or rather was intensified.

Roy noted all this, and more. In one flash he knew why Denham Ivor so loved Sir John, and why men could with very gladness die for him. The young Ensign's heart beat tumultuously under a rush of new sensations, and a passion of devotion for such a leader as this sprang at once into being.

Moore, gazing in his earnest fashion upon the boy, read the look in his face, and smiled; and in an instant sadness vanished. It was no new thing for him to be conscious of his own magical control over the hearts of others.

A few businesslike questions were put, as to when Roy had joined his regiment and the training he had since received. Presently Moore remarked—

"So you escaped from Bitche, I am told!"

"I was so fortunate, sir. With the help of a Frenchman."

"Ha! How was that?"

"He was grateful, sir, to my father, and wished to make a return. He had been taken in the conscription some time before, and my father and Captain Ivor helped to pay for a substitute. It was for his old mother's sake."

This was a note which could not fail to appeal to the most loyal of sons. Moore's face showed quick response, though he only said—"Détenus?"

"Yes, sir. We were detained in 1803—my father and Captain Ivor. My mother stayed with them, and I could not get a passport. Later on I was sent from Verdun to Bitche."

"Denham Ivor of the Guards! I remember—he was among the détenus."

"Yes, sir. He was under you in the West Indies and Holland and Egypt."

"Of course. I know him well. I regretted much not having him again. How came he to linger so long in France?"

Roy explained briefly the smallpox complication, the General listening with still that intent gaze.

"Then Ivor is at Verdun now. Hard upon him! As gallant a young fellow as I ever had to do with. I would give something to have him in this expedition."

Roy treasured up the words for Ivor's future comfort.

"Captain Ivor feels it terribly, sir," he said.

"You have been much thrown with him?"

"Yes, sir. He was my father's ward. He has always been a brother and friend to me."

"I am glad to hear it. He is a friend worth having." After a slight break the General remarked, "Napoleon made a blunder there, for once. The absence of proper exchange falls at least as heavily upon the French as upon ourselves. How long were you imprisoned at Bitche?"

"Nearly nine months, sir."

"The place has been described as a hell upon earth."

"Yes, sir." Roy looked up into the now grave face. "That is not too strong a description. It is—awful."

"I must hear more another day—" as some one else came up, claiming attention. "By the bye, you know Captain Keene also. He spoke to me of you."

"Yes, sir. We are connected."

"Well, Baron, I shall expect a good deal from a friend of Ivor's."

"I will do my best, sir, not to disappoint you."

Sir John smiled kindly again, as he turned away. Roy went out of the room, captivated, dazzled, wild to do and to dare aught in the world for the sake of Moore.

CHAPTER XXXII

TWO MIGHTY MEN

ON the 20th of August Sir John Moore reached Portugal. He was ordered at once to disembark and to join Sir Arthur Wellesley.

Three days before Moore's arrival Sir Arthur—future Duke of Wellington—gained a victory over the French at Vimiera. Unfortunately he was at this moment superseded in command by Sir Harry Burrard, who arrived while the battle was being actually fought. The two Generals greeted one another upon the field.

This meant that the pursuit of the flying foe, which ought to have ended in a thorough rout, was timidly cut short. Next day Burrard was in turn superseded by Sir Hew Dalrymple; and his management of affairs and hasty signing of an armistice raised at home a storm of indignation.

Just at this point a little by-play took place, which so plainly shows the characters of the then two greatest English Generals, that it is worth telling.

Moore took the first step. He went to Dalrymple, chief in command, and said to him, with decision, that if hostilities should begin again, Wellesley, and not himself, ought to have the command. Moore had the first right, as senior; but he counted it only fair that Wellesley should be allowed to carry on what he had so well begun, and he offered freely to waive his own right.

Wellesley took the second step. While Moore thus generously proposed to sacrifice his own claims on behalf of a junior, Wellesley was only anxious that Moore's great gifts should not be lost to his country. The conduct of these two grand men, each towards the other, is a fair sight indeed, beside the jealousies which sometimes mar the bravest natures.

A frank, soldierly letter was sent by Wellesley to Moore, referring to his recent interview with "His Majesty's Ministers," and expressing a fear lest Moore's action that day might stand in the way of his being raised to the supreme command.

Would Sir John be willing to discuss the question with him? "It appears to me," he wrote, "to be quite impossible we can go on as we are now constituted. The Commander-in-chief must be changed; and the Country and the Army naturally turn their eyes to you as their Commander."

This letter took Moore by surprise. The two had met before, perhaps, but they had not been intimate. He at once replied cordially, and the interview was arranged for the next day, Wellesley calling upon Moore on his way home.

Outsiders, of course, did not know what this interview meant. Jack and Roy, taking a stroll together in a leisure hour, passed Moore's quarters at the moment when Wellesley rode up and dismounted. Their eyes met, and Roy murmured, "Wonder what's up now!"

"Something will have to be up soon, if things are not to go to a complete smash," returned Jack. "England won't stand long throwing men and money away for nothing. If battles are to end as that did the other day—" he referred to Vimiera—"there'll be a rumpus somewhere. Shouldn't wonder if a change is coming soon. Those two don't meet for nothing."

"No chance of anything proper being done till Moore is put into his right place," declared indignant Roy, not aware that he was echoing the precise sentiments of Sir Arthur Wellesley himself.

And they knew nothing, they could know nothing, of what was at that moment going on within the four walls of the house they had passed.

The confidential talk which took place inside those walls was a remarkable one.

Two of the greatest men of their generation had met there—one who was in a few years to become the foremost soldier of his age; another who could hardly have failed to become so, had he lived a few years longer. Each was bent upon the good of his country; each was willing to sacrifice for the benefit of the other what might be for his own gain. One by birth was Scots, one by birth was Irish; but both were British—nay, English!—to the backbone.

Sir Arthur Wellesley, in age eight years the younger, was still at the opening of his grand career. Sir John Moore, after thirty years of hard service, was fast nearing the close of his. He at this date had a world-wide fame. Sir Arthur, though he had made his mark by a masterly campaign in India, was not yet famous beyond a certain circle. But Moore had noted his power.

Wellesley's strongly-outlined eagle face and large Roman nose contrasted with the refined delicacy of Moore's features. In force of character, however, in strength of will, in courage and patriotism, in freedom from all narrowness of party spirit, the two were alike. With Wellesley, as with Moore, private interests went down before National interests, and DUTY was a word utterly supreme through life.

Perhaps the main difference between the two lay in the fact that Wellesley lacked that peculiar "strain of sweetness," that element of womanly tenderness, which made Moore so intensely beloved. His was a more homogeneously iron nature; yet it was of finely-wrought iron.

They went quietly into the matter together. Moore's impetuous self-defence before Castlereagh was referred to; and Sir John gave full particulars, adding frankly, "I thought it needful to express what I felt under the circumstances. But having done so, I have felt no more upon the subject."

Wellesley demurred. He feared that Sir John's heat on that occasion might stand in the path of his future usefulness. He was absolutely sure that no unkind intentions had existed on the part of the Ministers. Lord Castlereagh was naturally "cautious;" and a difficulty might have been felt in giving the chief command to Sir John until a formal explanation had taken place with the Swedish Court.

Then Sir Arthur earnestly pressed to be allowed to say to the Ministers that Moore was sorry to have misunderstood them, if no slight had been intended; and that, having once for all spoken out, he would think of the matter no more.

Moore hesitated. No opening had been made from the Government. He hardly saw how he could take the first step. He had known what the consequences might be of his course of action. And to make a submission now, merely with a view to getting a higher post,—"That is out of the question," he said firmly.

Wellesley was not convinced. Then, as ever, his one thought was for England's good. He knew what the loss of Moore's services in any degree could not fail to be to England. It seemed to him that personal feelings, and what might be thought of any individual action, were matters unimportant, compared with the one great question of the Country's need, the one fact that Moore more than any living man could supply that need. He still urged his own view of what ought to be done.

And Sir John partly yielded. If Sir Arthur were enough interested to mention this conversation to Lord Castlereagh, simply stating as a fact that Sir John had not the smallest feeling of ill-will to any man in the Ministry, he was welcome to do so. If wrong impressions were held, he would be grateful to any friend who should kindly set matters right.

Further than this Moore declined to budge. Wellesley had to promise that he would keep strictly to the terms dictated. He sailed next day for England.

But before he could carry out his generous intentions, such steps as he most desired had been already taken. The opposition to Moore's appointment, offered mainly by Canning, had been overcome by the determination of the King, who roundly declared that "No man but Moore should command that army."

Dalrymple was recalled; Burrard was superseded; and Moore was placed at the head of about thirty thousand men, to be used in the north of Spain, conjointly with the Spanish forces. Had the Duke of York been allowed a free hand, Moore might have had sixty thousand.

So strongly had Sir John been impressed, during the interview, with the lofty disinterestedness of the future Iron Duke, that it must have gratified him to get a letter from Wellesley containing these words: "I find that by the distribution I am placed under your command—than which nothing can be more agreeable to me. I will go to Coruña immediately, where I hope to find you."

It so happened that, after the Battle of Vimiera, Sir Arthur had written to Lord Castlereagh, asking to be ordered home, since he had been "too successful" with the Army "ever to serve with it in a subordinate position" satisfactorily. Which meant that he could not thus serve under those who were then placed over him. To serve under Sir John Moore wore plainly in his eyes a very different aspect.

Unfortunately he was kept in England for other purposes, and Moore had not the help of his presence during the coming campaign.

CHAPTER XXXIII

CAPTIVES STILL

LIFE at Verdun went wearily on, week after week, month after month. Little happened there, to vary the dead monotony of existence.

Months, many and long, had dragged past since the day when Roy was hurried away to Bitche. No news of him had since been received. Letters had been written by Roy, but they had not reached his friends. Letters had been written by Colonel and Mrs. Baron, and money had been sent; but whether these had found their way to Roy was utterly uncertain. A few Bitche prisoners who had arrived knew nothing of him.

Lucille had come across Jean Paulet, and had done her best to enlist his help. But they had now almost ceased to look for Jean's appearance.

How Mrs. Baron would have lived through this prolonged suspense it is hard to say, but for the pressing need to forget herself in attendance upon Ivor. She had not in the past, with all her attractiveness, been unselfish; but trouble was teaching her to put self into the background.

Denham's complete breakdown after the march from Valenciennes was ascribed by his friends to the arrest of Roy; and no doubt that event had a hand in the matter. For many weeks he was in a state of more or less acute danger. They had their hands full—Lucille as well as the Barons. During the greater part of a month, he could seldom be left alone, night or day. Even when the worst was over, his recovery proved to be of a very slow and intermittent kind. Weakness seemed incurable.

It dawned upon Mrs. Baron one day how long a time had passed with no mention of Polly. Ivor was not given to talking about his own affairs; and much of this abstention might be due to his excessive languor; yet such persistent silence was hardly thus to be fully accounted for. If unable to write to Polly himself; he could have sent a message. Hitherto Mrs. Baron had avoided with him all distressing subjects. She began to wonder if this plan had been wise.

"If only Jean would come!" sighed Lucille.

"Yes," Mrs. Baron replied. "Den thinks a great deal of my boy. It keeps him back. I know that. But—there is Polly too."

Lucille's face clouded slightly.

"That old affair, does it continue still, madame? Mademoiselle Keene does not write. Captain Ivor does not ask after her. May it not be that they forget?"

"Denham does not forget." Mrs. Baron saw with clearness a danger for Lucille. No answer came. Lucille hastily left the room.

Denham had been ordered to take daily exercise; and he had just started for a turn, with the help of Colonel Baron's arm. Reaching the end of the street, they turned a corner and came upon Curtis. He was hurrying along, a troubled frown upon his face.

"Ivor!—taking a stroll. You don't look like getting on much. Colonel, can I have a word with you presently—merely a trifle—business, I mean," with a hasty self-correction.

"Anything pressing?" asked the Colonel.

"N—o. That is to say—"

"News from Bitche?" inquired Ivor. Curtis, taken by surprise, faltered. "I thought so. What is it?"

"I assure you—nothing definite as to Roy." The suppressed agitation in Curtis's manner hardly bore out his words.

"Anybody arrived from Bitche? Has Roy been seen?"

Curtis hesitated again. He was a bad hand at evasion.

"Whatever has been told you, we must hear the whole—and at once. No keeping back of anything, please."

Under a small tree, some paces off, was an unoccupied seat. Denham moved thither, the other two standing. "Now!" he said.

Colonel Baron had not spoken thus far. In reply to an appealing glance, he muttered, "Yes; no use! You have said too much. Tell the whole." And Curtis obeyed.

The tale which he had to repeat was not new in kind, though perhaps worse than aught which had yet reached their ears. He gave it briefly, making as little as might be of facts which could not be softened down. It was a story which readers of this book already know—about a party of young fellows, chiefly middies, who sought to escape from Bitche over the high outer wall. A French officer of rank, who heard of the project, had kept watch till it neared completion. Then, at the critical moment, he had cut through the rope on which the lads hung; by which brutal deed many of them had been killed on the spot, many others severely hurt.

Colonel Baron's lips were compressed, and his look was stern. Ivor heard with outward quietness.

"Was Roy one of them?"

"They don't know. They can't say. I told you, I have no certain news of Roy."

"No. But you have some reason to suppose that he might have been one of the party."

Curtis hesitated again. "He—one of the men—did hear a report. They were only a night or two at Bitche, in the great dungeon, some time after this happened. It was said that Roy had been there—up to the day when the escape was attempted. And after that—"

"After that—?"

"Roy had disappeared. As well as the midshipmen."

Dead silence followed. Denham was the first to speak.

"No certainty—either way. This must not reach Mrs. Baron. Take care that it does not come to her ears."

"It will be all over Verdun in a day." Colonel Baron spoke in a gloomy tone. "But perhaps—if I warn friends—"

"Go at once—both of you. Never mind me. For Heaven's sake, keep it from her, at least till we know the truth," urged Ivor passionately.

Colonel Baron insisted on giving him an arm as far as the house; after which he and Curtis went off together, and Denham dragged himself slowly upstairs. Lucille was gone out; and Mrs. Baron came to meet him. "My dear Den—how ill you look! What made you go so far?"

Ivor was past speaking, and she busied herself for some minutes, bathing his brow, till he could murmur, "I'm a trouble to everybody."

"One does not talk of trouble when people are—what you are to us."

He could not smile, thinking of that which might have come to Roy.

"I wish I could see you a little stronger. Such a short turn ought not to knock you up like this. Lucille says you are kept back by the suspense as to my boy. Is that true?" She spoke steadily, for trouble long-continued had taught the once spoilt wife self-control.

Denham's hand closed on hers silently.

"You must not be too anxious. I think it shows a want of trust. I try hard not to be so myself. My boy is in God's hands, and He will not fail us. I do believe our prayers will be heard—and Roy be taken care of."

"Such trust—cannot be thrown away!"

"Lucille still hopes to hear from Jean."

"Yes—"

"Den, I want to ask you something else. Are you worrying yourself about getting so few letters from home? From Polly, I mean. I don't think you need. We know how often she may have written, and not a single letter reach us."

Denham would not refuse the subject. Anything at that moment was better than questions as to Roy. A slight movement checked her.

"No," he said very low. "I heard, while at Valenciennes. That is—at an end."

"Not—you and Polly! You do not mean that she will not wait!"

"She is so young. It could not be the same to her—as to—"

"But you do not know this for a certainty."

"She was engaged—months ago—to Captain Peirce."

Mrs. Baron understood now, only too well, the change in Ivor's looks on his return to Verdun, the dangerous illness, and the tardy convalescence.

"And—that broke you down."

"I suppose it helped."

"Did Polly herself write?"

"No. A friend."

"But not Polly! May it not be a mistake?"

"I am afraid not. The authority was good."

"You would have waited twenty years for her?" Scalding tears were in Mrs. Baron's eyes.

"I!—yes."

"Den, I don't know how to believe it."

"I am glad to have told you. It is right that you should know. But after this—I cannot talk of her—even to you."

Yet it might be that he was conscious of relief at having spoken. He did his best presently to seem more cheerful.

An hour later Colonel Baron returned; and two minutes after Lucille, who had been out, threw open the door.

"At last! At last!" she cried, joyously clapping her hands. "Ah, Madame,—good news at last! Jean is come, to tell us of Roy. Ah, the good man,—is he not good? He comes to say that Roy is escaped—Roy is safe—Roy is gone to England. Entrez! Entrez! Ah, come, Monsieur, and tell the news."

Mrs. Baron cried out in startled tones, while the Colonel's overcast brow was wondrously lightened, and Denham sprang to his feet with almost the energy of old days.

"Oui, oui, Monsieur—grâce à Dieu—it is good news that I have the happiness to bring. Monsieur is no longer in that frightful Bitche. He is by now, I sincerely hope, safe in his own country. Oui, Monsieur, I travelled with him, and I stayed with him till he left France—in an English vessel bound for England. It was long waiting for a vessel, but the opportunity came at last. And I have returned, as I promised cette bonne demoiselle that I would assuredly do. I have found my way to Verdun, to set the hearts of monsieur's friends at rest—the heart of Madame sa Mère, and of Monsieur son Père, and of Monsieur le Capitaine. I grieve to see Monsieur still si malade. But Monsieur Roy is safe—out of reach of l'Empéreur."

Jean had to stop, for Lucille was crying; and Mrs. Baron was clinging to her husband, overcome by the very joy of relief; and the Colonel could only choke when he tried to speak; and Denham, no less voiceless, had grasped Jean's hand in gratitude.

"Mais, Monsieur—mais, Madame—mais, Mademoiselle —I have done nothing, truly nothing at all. Save that which cette bonne demoiselle desired me to do. And truly, for the matter of thanks, that which ces messieurs did in the past for me and my mother can never be forgotten."

Then Jean's voice failed him too.

CHAPTER XXXIV

AT SALAMANCA

"WHAT wouldn't Den give to be here?" murmured Roy.

He stood in the splendid Plaza of the fine old Spanish town, Salamanca. It was an enormous square, perhaps hardly to be outdone in Europe as to size, having been built to hold as many as twenty thousand people, on the occasion of a great bull-fight. On one side stood the buildings devoted to municipal functions, and around ran an arcade formed of nearly one hundred arches.

Salamanca had been named as the rendezvous for the British Army, coming in detachments and by different routes from Portugal. During the last fortnight one body of men after another had arrived, all full of life and energy, all burning to meet the foe.

This was the twenty-fifth of November, exactly two months from the date of the despatch sent by British Ministers, appointing Sir John Commander of the Forces in the Peninsula. Despatches in those days travelled slowly; and Moore had been terribly hampered. There was no organised Army Transport. There was no regular Intelligence Department. By far the greater number of his officers, however ardent in spirit they might be, had seen no active service. His Army, though it included some of the most splendid regiments in Europe, trained by himself in earlier years at Shorncliffe, included also large numbers of raw recruits, the latter having to be, almost in the face of the enemy, "drilled and rattled" into shape.

Yet, within three weeks of receiving the news of his appointment, Moore with his staff left Lisbon.

High hopes had been felt, resting partly on confident reports of Spanish enthusiasm and preparedness. Sixty or seventy thousand soldiers, it was said, under three Spanish Generals, burning with ardour to extinguish the French, waited to join the British Army, sent to their aid. The French, few in number and depressed in spirit, would be nowhere before these valiant warriors.

But such hopes as depended on Spanish valour were already waxing dim. News had filtered round to Salamanca of advancing French, and of retiring Spaniards. Two of the Spanish Generals, with their forces, had beaten a hasty retreat. The third, under Castanos, might or might not follow suit. If he too failed, the British Army would find itself in serious straits, and be compelled to retreat also.

No such thought was in the mind of Roy Baron, or of his brother-officers. They were eager to come face to face with the enemy.

It was over ten days since Roy had reached Salamanca, and already he felt at home there. Many changes in his short life had made ready adaptation to fresh surroundings an easy matter.

The great Plaza was full of people—British soldiers marching past, Spanish sightseers gazing. Every soldier wore a red cockade, in compliment to the nation he had come to help. Banners fluttered gaily, and the bracing wintry air was stirred by the incessant throb of drums. As one band died away, another drew near.

Drilling and marching were the order of the day. The Army had to be welded into shape; and not an hour was wasted. Subalterns, as well as officers of higher grades, were kept busy.

Roy, finding himself off duty for a short time, had wandered into the great square, to see what was going on, and to add his voice in lusty welcome to the latest arrived regiment. He stood close to one of the Corinthian columns, by which the arches were upborne. A thought of Verdun had come to him, and a recollection of Denham. What would not Den have given to be with them?

"Hallo, Roy!"

Roy spoke out impulsively the idea uppermost in his mind, as Jack and his cousin, Bob Monke, walked up.

"I say, Jack—if Den were but here!"

Jack made a sound of commiseration.

"I often think how lucky it was I knocked down that wretched bust, and got myself sent to Bitche. But for that—why, I might be kicking up my heels at Verdun, to this very day. Odd!—when one comes to think!—it seemed about the worst thing which could have happened to me. One never does know at the time. I know I wouldn't undo it all now."

Roy was young, but he lived in a moralising age.

Jack nodded general assent. "Where have you been? We couldn't find you."

"Took a look at the cathedral. It's a jolly fine building. Any number of centuries old."

"There's Napier. I want a word with him."

Jack dashed off towards an aide-de-camp of Sir John, Captain George Napier, one of a gallant trio of brothers, all present in this expedition. Roy did not follow. Bob Monke was remarking, in his dreamy voice,—"Men in uncommonly good condition."

"Fit for anything!" agreed Roy.

"No letters from home, I suppose."

"Yesterday."

"Good news of your sister?" A slight flush came to the young fellow's cheek.

"Molly is all right. She asks me to remember her to you."

Jack came back at a swinging pace. "Look out—here comes the General!"

A stir took place, every face turning in one direction, as Moore on a spirited charger rode slowly through the square. His glance seemed to be everywhere; and he managed his steed with the unconscious ease of a perfect rider.

"Looks harassed," murmured Jack.

"He looks—the grandest fellow that ever lived," uttered Bob.

"My dear boy, you won't find any man in the Army to contradict that. If you're anxious to get up an enlivening discussion, try some other topic."

"What I want to know is—when are we to be joined by the Spanish, and have a go at the French?" demanded Roy, earnestly following Moore with his gaze.

"Everybody else wants to know precisely the same. Blake and Romana haven't proved 'emselves good for much. Question now is—what of Castanos?"

This question was pressing heavily on Sir John Moore. Though as yet he did not and could not know the enormous size of the French Army then within the borders of Spain, he did know that it certainly more than trebled the small British force under his own control. Working side by side with fifty thousand or more good Spanish soldiers, he might hope to do much. But if those fifty thousand should prove themselves of no more use than a bundle of rotten sticks, Salamanca was no place for his little Army.

Sir John was a systematically early riser. Next morning, as usual, he was up between three and four o'clock. He lighted the fire with his own hands, after his habit, from a lamp kept burning in his room; and before turning to business, he wrote a confidential letter to one of his brothers. As a Commander he was exceedingly reserved, seldom revealing what he knew or what he intended to do, sooner than was necessary. It might be that a craving for sympathy had come over him, in the weight of his lonely responsibilities. Whatever he said would be safe with his own people.

"Upon entering Spain," he wrote, "I have found affairs in a very different state from what I expected, or from what they are thought to be in England. I am in a scrape, from which God knows how I am to extricate myself. But instead of Salamanca, this Army should have been assembled at Seville." And, at the close of a full and clear statement of affairs, he continued: "I understand all is fear and confusion at Madrid. Tell James it is difficult to judge at a distance. The Spaniards have not shown themselves a wise or a provident people. Their wisdom is not a wisdom of action; but still they are a fine people; a character of their own quite distinct from other nations; and much might have been done with them. Perhaps they may rouse again. Pray for me that I may make right decisions; if I make bad ones, it will not be for want of consideration. I sleep little. It is now only five in the morning, and I have concluded, since I got up, this long letter."

The whole letter was very patient and calm; and especially touching were those simple words—"Pray for me!"—from a man so intensely reticent on religious subjects as Sir John. If words were needed to show what he was, beside the plain utterance of such a character and such a life as his, these alone would serve to make it abundantly clear that silence on his part meant neither lack of thought nor lack of feeling.

Two days later came the news that Castanos had been routed by the French. It was evident that the so-called "retirement" of the other Spanish generals had been, in each case, a complete defeat.

Moore's little force now stood alone, in the heart of what had become practically an enemy's country. The order went forth—given with what pain and reluctance those knew who knew Moore—to prepare for retreat. Yet still he held on, delaying day after day. He would not take the actual step until it had become a necessity.

CHAPTER XXXV

MOORE'S BOLD VENTURE

"THEY say so!" observed Jack.

"Who do?"

"Those two Spanish fellows that came into camp yesterday—the two generals. I've not seen 'em, but plenty of others have. They vow and declare that Castanos wasn't routed by any manner of means. Can't of course deny the fact of some slight reverses; but they have it that the spirit of Spain is unbroken. And they beg and beseech that Moore will give 'em another chance—not retreat to Portugal, and leave 'em to their fate."

"Will he?" demanded Roy breathlessly.

"Can't tell. Moore never speaks till he means to act. Good news for us all, if he does. I haven't overmuch faith in Spanish enthusiasm. Don't want the Spaniards to bolster us up, though. Twenty-four thousand British are equal any day to thirty or forty thousand French. But what can be done, Sir John will do."

"Just for once to get within reach of Soult, and have at him!" fervently uttered Roy. "Hallo, there's Bob coming full tilt."

"Something in the wind. Bob doesn't go that pace for nothing."

Full tilt indeed came Bob Monke, waving his cap frantically. Jack and Roy were standing on the great Salamanca bridge, formed of twenty-six arches, many of which dated back to Roman days. The strong river flowed below; and Roy had been leaning over as they talked, gazing into the water. Now he stood watching Bob's approach.

"What does he say?" as a shout was borne on the breeze. They were near the centre of the bridge, which measures five hundred feet from end to end, and Bob was distant still; but as he drew near, his fair face was seen to be flushed with excitement, and words became distinguishable.

"Hurrah! Order to advance! Retreat countermanded! Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" shouted Roy, and three caps went up together.

Then they dashed into camp to learn particulars. Not much could be gathered as yet, beyond the bare fact that an immediate advance was commanded. With light-hearted enthusiasm, the whole Army responded. Moore, upon whom the full weight of responsibility rested, could scarcely be light of heart. He knew too well what this move might mean.

When news was first received of the complete collapse of the Spaniards, he had planned a retreat to Portugal, there to await reinforcements from England. But heavy pressure was brought to bear upon him. And as one assurance after another was given, from various quarters, that the Spaniards were still in the mood to fight, with vehement urging that he would not forsake the unfortunate people whom he had come to help, he at length resolved to give them one more opportunity to show themselves men.

A daring conception had come to his mind, and it was promptly carried out. Instead of retiring at once to a position of safety, he would first make a bold swoop upon Soult's Army, thus threatening the line of Napoleon's communications with France. And his object in so doing was, simply and definitely, by drawing the weight of the Conqueror's fury upon himself and his small British force, to relieve the fearful pressure upon the southern provinces of Spain.

It was a startling and a hazardous step. In the hand of any less brilliant and experienced Commander, it might have ended in an awful disaster—in a modern Thermopylae on a huge scale—in the wholesale destruction of the British force.

Napoleon had expected, as a matter of course, that Moore would retreat so soon as the Spanish armies melted away. What else could he do? Napoleon had at this date within the borders of Spain 330,000 soldiers, 60,000 horses, and 200 pieces of field artillery. Moore had with him less than 24,000 soldiers, and perhaps another 10,000 in Portugal, inclusive of 4000 in hospital.

Then, to Napoleon's unbounded amazement, he learnt—getting the news on December 2—that, in place of retreating, the puny British force was boldly advancing towards the Douro.

The Emperor's exclamation, as heard by Marshal Ney, and afterwards repeated by him to Major Charles Napier, was—

"Moore is the only General now fit to contend with me! I shall advance against him in person."

Buonaparte seldom did things by halves, and he acted with even more than his accustomed energy.

The force and genius of this English Commander, by whom he was so daringly opposed, had suddenly burst upon him; and he at once knew that no common effort on his own part would secure him the victory.

Without an hour's delay, orders went forth to check the southward march of his columns, and to pour fifty thousand men in a torrent across the snowy Guadarrama hills, that they might cut off the retreat of Moore to the coast.

His object was to place the small English force between the great Army of the south and the French corps under Soult,—the latter consisting of about thirty thousand men. That done, the crushing of the British Army would be a mere matter of detail. At any moment Napoleon could supplement his first fifty thousand with a hundred thousand more.

But this fierce northward rush of Napoleon was exactly what Moore had meant to bring about. He had drawn away the main body of the French from the tortured south; he had given the Spaniards a breathing-space in which to rally, if they would, for fresh resistance; and he had for the moment saved Portugal from desperate peril. He could do no more.

Twenty-three thousand men, with eight or ten thousand more out of reach, opposed to seventy or eighty thousand, with a hundred thousand more within reach! Two thousand cavalry pitted against six or eight times their own number! A collie-dog snapping at a Bengal tiger, would be no inapt picture of Moore's desperate daring.

When news arrived of Napoleon's rush to cut off his communications with Portugal, Moore was within twenty-four hours of falling upon Soult, beyond the river Carrion. One sharp brush had already taken place with the enemy—seven hundred French cavalry being routed by four hundred English hussars. Every man in the Army was passionately eager to meet the foe.

Moore, however, did not hesitate. The work intended by his spirited advance was done. Nothing remained but to fall steadily back before overwhelming odds.

All those bright expectations, with which he had started on this expedition, had been dashed to the ground. In every direction he had met with indifference and opposition, where he ought to have found grateful co-operation. The Spanish forces had proved themselves worthless.

And to the unutterable disappointment of officers and men, the forward march was countermanded.

"Retreat, Jack! Now! When one day more would bring us up with Soult!"

How could Roy know, how could other murmuring spirits around him know, that which Moore alone realised—that one day more of advance would be simply playing into Napoleon's hands, would bring about that which the tyrant of Europe most ardently desired—the complete annihilation of the small British army?

There was indeed not a moment to be lost. By forced marches and the utmost expedition the first and most perilous stage was done. The river Esla was crossed; and not too soon. Napoleon, pushing furiously forward, bent heart and soul on getting to Benevente before the English, found himself twelve hours too late. Moore had precisely reckoned his time, and had neatly baffled Europe's Conqueror.

A few days later, on the first of January, Napoleon had a second dire mortification. He reached Astorga, for which he had aimed—again straining every nerve, with the hope of cutting off Moore's retreat,—and, as at the Esla, he was once more a day too late. A second time Moore had quietly slipped away out of his grasp.

While at Astorga he heard of a fresh alliance between Russia and Austria, and of a meditated attack upon France during his absence. The crushing of Spain, delayed by Moore, had to be put off. Napoleon, with a body of troops, hurried back to Paris. But he left Soult and Ney in command of sixty or seventy thousand men in two columns, the one to attack Moore in rear, the other to take him in flank, while thousands scattered about the country were advancing to support them.

Enough, in all conscience, one would imagine, to deal with a retreating force of less than twenty-four thousand!