The noon was still and sultry. Along the narrow street of the small
village of Lodar poured the wearied but yet unconquered band, which
embodied in that district of Spain the last hope and energy of freedom.
The countenances of the soldiers were haggard and dejected; they
displayed even less of the vanity than their accoutrements exhibited of
the pomp and circumstances of war. Yet their garments were such as even
the peasants had disdained: covered with blood and dust, and tattered
into a thousand rags, they betokened nothing of chivalry but its
endurance of hardship; even the rent and sullied banners drooped sullenly
along their staves, as if the winds themselves had become the minions of
fortune, and disdained to swell the insignia of those whom she had
deserted. The glorious music of battle was still. An air of dispirited
and defeated enterprise hung over the whole army. "Thank Heaven," said
the chief, who closed the last file as it marched--on to its scanty
refreshment and brief repose; "thank Heaven, we are at least out of the
reach of pursuit; and the mountains, those last retreats of liberty, are
before us!" "True, Don Rafael," replied the youngest of two officers who
rode by the side of the commander; "and if we can cut our passage to
Mina, we may yet plant the standard of the Constitution in Madrid."
"Ay," added the elder officer, "and I sing Riego's hymn in the place of
the Escurial!" "Our sons may!" said the chief, who was indeed Riego
himself, "but for us--all hope is over! Were we united, we could
scarcely make head against the armies of France; and divided as we are,
the wonder is that we have escaped so long. Hemmed in by invasion, our
great enemy has been ourselves. Such has been the hostility faction has
created between Spaniard and Spaniard, that we seem to have none left to
waste upon Frenchmen. We cannot establish freedom if men are willing to
be slaves. We have no hope, Don Alphonso--no hope--but that of death!"