far advanced, I turned towards my quarters, hoping that
the next morning might gratify my curiosity about my friends.

Beside the tent where I was billeted, I found Mike in waiting, who, the
moment he saw me, came hastily forward with a letter in his hand. An
officer of Sir Arthur's staff had left it while I was absent, desiring
Mike on no account to omit its delivery the first instant he met me.
The hand--not a very legible one--was perfectly unknown to me, and the
appearance of the billet such as betrayed no over-scrupulous care in the
writer.

I trimmed my lamp leisurely, threw a fresh log upon the fire, disposed
myself completely at full length beside it, and then proceeded to form
acquaintance with my unknown correspondent. I will not attempt any
description of the feelings which gradually filled me as I read on; the
letter itself will suggest them to those who know my story. It ran thus:--

PLACENTIA, July 8, 1809.
DEAR O'MALLEY,--Although I'd rather march to Lisbon barefoot
than write three lines, Fred Power insists upon my turning scribe,
as he has a notion you'll be up at Cuesta's headquarters about this
time. You're in a nice scrape, devil a lie in it! Here has Fred
been fighting that fellow Trevyllian for you,--all because you would
not have patience and fight him yourself the morning you left the
Douro,--so much for haste! Let it be a lesson to you for life.

Poor Fred got the ball in his hip, and the devil a one of the doctors
can find it. But he's getting better any way, and going to Lisbon
for change of air. Meanwhile, since Power's been wounded, Trevyllian's
speaking very hardly of you, and they all say here you must
come back--no matter how--and put matters to rights. Fred has
placed the thing in my hands, and I'm thinking we'd better call out
the "heavies" by turns,--for most of them stand by Trevyllian.
Maurice Quill and myself sat up considering it last night; but,
somehow, we don't clearly remember to-day a beautiful plan we hit
upon. However, we'll have at it again this evening. Meanwhile,
come over here, and let us be doing something. We hear that old
Monsoon has blown up a town, a bridge, and a big convent. They
must have been hiding the plunder very closely, or he'd never have
been reduced to such extremities. We'll have a brush with the
French soon.
Yours