Thus thought Massena, knowing nothing of the lines of Torres Vedras;
and thus, too, thought the British Government at home, itself
declaring that Wellington was ruining the country to no purpose,
since in the end the British must be driven out with terrible loss
and infamy that must make their name an opprobrium in the world.

But Wellington went his relentless way, and at tire end of the
first week of October brought his army and the multitude of refugees
safely within the amazing lines. The French, pressing hard upon
their heels and confident that the end was near, were brought up
sharply before those stupendous, unsuspected, impregnable
fortifications.

After spending best part of a month in vain reconnoitering, Massena
took up his quarters at Santarem, and thence the country was
scoured for what scraps of victuals had been left to relieve the
dire straits of the famished host of France. How the great marshal
contrived to hold out so long in Santarem against the onslaught of
famine and concomitant disease remains something of a mystery. An
appeal to the Emperor for succour eventually brought Drouet with
provisions, but these were no more than would keep his men alive on a
retreat into Spain, and that retreat he commenced early in the
following March, by when no less than ten thousand of his army had
fallen sick.

Instantly Wellington was up and after him. The French retreat
became a flight. They threw away baggage and ammunition that they
might travel the lighter. Thus they fled towards Spain, harassed
by the British cavalry and scarcely less by the resentful peasantry