they could not keep up; and yet if they lingered the peasants would
catch them and crucify them to the barn doors with their feet up and a
fire under their heads, which was a pity for these fine old soldiers.
So when they could go no further, it was interesting to see what they
would do; for they would sit down and say their prayers, sitting on an
old saddle, or their knapsacks, maybe, and then take off their boots and
their stockings, and lean their chin on the barrel of their musket.
Then they would put their toe on the trigger, and _pouf!_ it was all
over, and there was no more marching for those fine old Grenadiers. Oh,
it was very rough work up there on these Guadarama mountains!"

"And what army was this?" I asked.

"Oh, I have served in so many armies that I mix them up sometimes.
Yes, I have seen much of war. Apropos I have seen your Scotchmen fight,
and very stout fantassins they make, but I thought from them, that the
folk over here all wore--how do you say it?--petticoats."

"Those are the kilts, and they wear them only in the Highlands."

"Ah! on the mountains. But there is a man out yonder. Maybe he is the
one who your father said would carry my letters to the post."

"Yes, he is Farmer Whitehead's man. Shall I give them to him?"

"Well, he would be more careful of them if he had them from your hand."

He took them from his pocket and gave them over to me. I hurried out
with them, and as I did so my eyes fell upon the address of the topmost
one. It was written very large and clear: