"In an arbor near the house, between one and two in the morning, a
party of French officers were discussing the chances of war, and the
not too hopeful outlook prognosticated by the conduct of the Spaniards
present at that grand ball.

"'I can only tell you,' said the surgeon-major of the company of
which I was paymaster, 'I applied formally to Prince Murat only
yesterday to be recalled. Without being afraid exactly of leaving my
bones in the Peninsula, I would rather dress the wounds made by our
worthy neighbors the Germans. Their weapons do not run quite so deep
into the body as these Castilian daggers. Besides, a certain dread of
Spain is, with me, a sort of superstition. From my earliest youth I
have read Spanish books, and a heap of gloomy romances and tales of
adventures in this country have given me a serious prejudice against
its manners and customs.

"'Well, now, since my arrival in Madrid, I have already been, not
indeed the hero, but the accomplice of a dangerous intrigue, as dark
and mysterious as any romance by Lady (Mrs.) Radcliffe. I am apt to
attend to my presentiments, and I am off to-morrow. Murat will not
refuse me leave, for, thanks to our varied services, we always have
influential friends.'

"'Since you mean to cut your stick, tell us what's up,' said an old
Republican colonel, who cared not a rap for Imperial gentility and
choice language.

"The surgeon-major looked about him cautiously, as if to make sure who
were his audience, and being satisfied that no Spaniard was within
hearing, he said: