of his troopers; and advised to place himself in the hands of Mr.
Bearsley for all that related to the purchase of the cattle. Let
it be admitted at once that had Sir Robert Craufurd been acquainted
with Mr. Butler's feather-brained, irresponsible nature, he would
have selected any officer rather than our lieutenant to command that
expedition. But the Irish Dragoons had only lately come to Pinhel,
and the general himself was not immediately concerned.

Lieutenant Butler set out on a blustering day of March at the head
of his troopers, accompanied by Cornet O.'Rourke and two sergeants,
and at Pesqueira he was further reinforced by a Portuguese guide.
They found quarters that night at Ervedoza, and early on the morrow
they were in the saddle again, riding along the heights above the
Cachao da Valleria, through which the yellow, swollen river swirled
and foamed along its rocky way. The prospect, formidable even in
the full bloom of fruitful and luxuriant summer, was forbidding and
menacing now as some imagined gorge of the nether regions. The
towering granite heights across the turgid stream were shrouded in
mist and sweeping rain, and from the leaden heavens overhead the
downpour was of a sullen and merciless steadiness, starting at
every step a miniature torrent to go swell the roaring waters in
the gorge, and drenching the troop alike in body and in spirit.
Ahead, swathed to the chin in his blue cavalry cloak, the water
streaming from his leather helmet, rode Lieutenant Butler, cursing
the weather, the country; the Light Division, and everything else
that occurred to him as contributing to his present discomfort.
Beside him, astride of a mule, rode the Portuguese guide in a caped
cloak of thatched straw, which made him look for all the world like
a bottle of his native wine in its straw sheath. Conversation
between the two was out of the question, for the guide spoke no