[Illustration: WHAT DO YOU MEAN, TERENCE? WE WOULD HAVE THRASHED THEM OUT
OF THEIR BOOTS IN NO TIME]


During the night the light cavalry of the imperial guard rode down.
Jackson, one of the sentries, fired and ran back to give the alarm. He was
overtaken, and received over a dozen sabre cuts; nevertheless he staggered
on until he reached the bridge, and gave the signal. Walton, the other
sentry, with equal resolution stood his ground and wounded several of his
assailants, who, as they drew off, left him unhurt, although his cap,
knapsack, belt, and musket were cut in over twenty places, and his bayonet
bent double.

Terence O'Connor's duties had been light enough during the advance, but
during the three days of the retreat to the Esla he had been incessantly
occupied. He and Trevor had both been directed to ride backwards and
forwards along the line of the brigade to see that there was no straggling
in the ranks, and that the baggage carts in the rear kept close up. The
task was no easy one, and was unpleasant as well as hard. Many of the
officers plodded sulkily along, paying no attention whatever to their men,
allowing them to straggle as they chose; and they were obliged to report
several of the worst cases to the brigadier. With the Mayo Fusiliers they
had less trouble than with others. Terence had, when he joined them at
their first halt after the retreat began, found them as angry and
discontented as the rest at the unexpected order, and was at once assailed
with questions and complaints.

He listened to them quietly, and then said:

"Of course, if you all prefer a French prison to a few days' hard