re broaching as they dragged them forth from a house on the upper
side of the square. A child--he could not have been more than four
years old--ran screaming by me. From a balcony right overhead a
soldier shot at him, missed, and laughed uproariously. Then he
reloaded and began firing among the bullocks, now jammed and goring
one another at the entrance of a narrow alley. And his shots seemed
to be a signal for a general salvo of random musketry. I saw a woman
cross the roadway with a rifleman close behind her; he swung up
his rifle, holding it by the muzzle, and clubbed her between the
shoulders with the butt.

All night these scenes went by me--these and scenes of which I cannot
write; unrolled in the blaze of the houses which burnt on, as little
regarded as I who lay in my gutter and watched them to the savage
unending music of yells, musketry, and the roar of flames.

In the height of it my ear caught the regular footfall of troops, and
a squad of infantry came swinging round the corner. I supposed it to
be a patrol sent to clear the streets and restore order. A small man
in civilian dress--a Portuguese, by his look--walked gingerly beside
the sergeant in charge, chatting and gesticulating. And, almost in
the same instant, I perceived that the men wore the uniform of the
North Wilts and that the sergeant he held in converse was George
Leicester.

By the light of the flames he recognised me, shook off his guide and
stepped forward.

"Hurt?" he asked. "Here, step out, a couple of you, and take hold of
this youngster. He's a friend of mine, and I've something to show
him: something that will amuse him, or I'm mistaken."

They hoisted me, not meaning to be rough, but hurting me cruelly
nevertheless: and two of them made a "chair" with crossed hands; but
they left my wounded foot dangling, and I swooned again with pain.

When I came to, we were in a street--dark but for their lanterns--
between a row of houses and a blank wall, and against this wall they
were laying me. The houses opposite were superior to any I had yet
seen in Ciudad Rodrigo and had iron balconies before their
first-floor windows, broad and deep and overhanging the house-doors.

On one of these doors Leicester was hammering with his side-arm, the
Portuguese standing by on the step below. No one answering, he
called to two of his men, who advanced and, setting the muzzles of
their muskets close against the keyhole, blew the door in.