lieutenant at parting that he should take one of the men from the
quinta, Butler, with wit enough to see that this was not desirable
under the circumstances, had preferred to find his way alone.

His confused mind strove now to revisualise the map which he had
consulted in Souza's parlour. He discovered, naturally enough, that
the task was altogether beyond his powers. Meanwhile night was
descending. They were, however, upon the mule track, which went up
and round the shoulder of a hill, and by this they came at dark upon
a hamlet.

Sergeant Flanagan was a shrewd fellow and perhaps the most sober
man in the troop - for the wine had run very freely in Souza's
kitchen, too, and the men, whilst awaiting their commander's
pleasure, had taken the fullest advantage of an opportunity that
was all too rare upon that campaign. Now Sergeant Flanagan began
to grow anxious. He knew the Peninsula from the days of Sir John
Moore, and he knew as much of the ways of the peasantry of Portugal
as any man. He knew of the brutal ferocity of which that peasantry
was capable. He had seen evidence more than once of the unspeakable
fate of French stragglers from the retreating army of Marshal Soult.
He knew of crucifixions, mutilations and hideous abominations
practised upon them in these remote hill districts by the merciless
men into whose hands they happened to fall, and he knew that it was
not upon French soldiers alone - that these abominations had been
practised. Some of those fierce peasants had been unable to
discriminate between invader and deliverer; to them a foreigner was
a foreigner and no more. Others, who were capable of discriminating,
were in the position of having come to look upon French and English
with almost equal execration.