"Ah, my dear sir," he said, with a gesture of despair, "if I knew the
whereabouts of the Golden Volcano, I should go thither myself, old as I
am. I should have gone long ago, and returned with a hoard of wealth that
would make me the master of Europe--wealth that would buy kingdoms. I can
tell you no more than that it is somewhere in the region of the Peruvian
Andes. It may be that by cautious inquiry you may light on an Indio who
will lead you to the very spot. It is worth the attempt, and if by the
help of St. Peter and the Holy Virgin you succeed, and I am still alive,
send me out of your abundance a few arrobas (twenty-five pounds) of gold
and a handful of diamonds. It is all I ask."

It was all he asked.

"When I find that volcano, Don Alberto," I said, "not a mere handful of
diamonds, but a bucketful."

This was almost our last talk, for the very same day news was brought that
Lord Wellington, having been forced to raise the siege of Burgos, was
retreating toward the Portuguese frontier, and that Salamanca would almost
inevitably be recaptured by the French. Orders were given for the removal
of the wounded to the Coa, where the army was to take up its winter
quarters, and Zamorra and I had to part. We parted with mutual expressions
of good-will, and in the hope, destined never to be realized, that we
might soon meet again. I had seen Don Alberto for the last time.

A few weeks later I was sufficiently recovered from my hurts to use my
bridle-arm, and before the opening of the next campaign I was fit for the
field and eager for the fray. It was the campaign of Vittoria, one of the
most brilliant episodes in the military history of England. Even now my