I must tell my readers that from earliest boyhood I had a passionate
love for shooting; and, through the kindness of my commanding officer
while at Monte Video, I was allowed constantly to indulge in sport.

On one occasion my captain, who was a keen sportsman, took me with him
out shooting. We had a famous day's sport, filled our game bags with
partridges, ducks, and snipe, and were returning home on horseback when
a solitary horseman, a nasty-looking fellow, armed to the teeth, rode up
to us. As I knew a little Spanish we began to talk about shooting, &c.
&c.; then he asked me to shoot a bird for him (the reason why he did
this will be seen immediately). I didn't like the cut of his jib, so
rather snubbed him. However, he continued to ride on with us, to within
half a mile of where our boat was waiting to take us on board. I must
explain our relative positions as we rode along. The captain was on my
left, I next to him, and the man was on my right, riding very near to
me. All of a sudden he exclaimed in Spanish, 'Now is the time or never,'
threw his right leg over the pommel of his saddle, slipped on to the
ground, drew his knife, dashed at me, and after snatching my gun from my
hand, stuck his knife (as he thought) into me. Then he rushed towards
the captain, pulling the trigger of my gun, and pointing straight at the
latter's head; the gun was not loaded, having only the old percussion
caps on. (Now I saw why he wanted me to fire, so that he might know
whether my gun was loaded; but the old caps evidently deceived him.)

All this was the work of a very few seconds. Now what was my chief
doing? Seeing a row going on, he was dismounting; in fact, was half-way
off his horse, only one foot in the stirrup, when the man made the rush
at him. Finding me stuck to my saddle (for the ruffian's knife had gone
through my coat and pinned me), and the fellow snapping my gun, which