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Cay Horstmann's Python for Everyone, 2nd Edition provides a
comprehensive and approachable introduction to fundamental
programming techniques and design skills, and helps students
master basic concepts and become competent coders. The
inclusion of advanced chapters makes the text suitable for a 2 or
3-term sequence, or as a comprehensive reference to
programming in Python. Major rewrites and an updated visual
design make this student-friendly text even more engaging.
Filled with realistic programming examples, a great quantity and
variety of homework assignments, and lab exercises that build
student problem-solving abilities, it is no surprise Python for
Everyone is the number one text for early objects in the Python
market.

About the Author

Cay Horstmann grew up in Northern Germany and attended the

Christian-Albrechts-Universitat in Kiel, a harbor town at the
Baltic sea. He received a M.S. in computer science from
Syracuse University, and a Ph.D. in mathematics from the
University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. For four years, he was VP
and CTO of an Internet startup that went from 3 people in a tiny
office to a public company. He now teaches computer science at
San Jose State University. Cay also writes books and articles on
programming languages and computer science education.
Other documents randomly have
different content
grenadier, as the dashing subaltern of the Guard, as a wretched
prisoner pining in Scotland, and again as a free and daring soldier,—
these high hopes, this proud ambition, never left me for an instant,
—buoying and bearing me up under all the toils of war and
misfortune, until I found myself stretched on the pavement of this
chapel, a dying captive! Honour has faded away from me, and the
proud sentiments which caused my heart to swell, to bound with
rapture at the sharp roll of the drum, now animate me no more.
Never again will drum or bugle sound for me!"
"You speak very sorrowfully, in truth," replied De Mesmai; "but
some droning monk has been putting these notions in your head.
Take care you do not exhaust yourself, mon ami."
"Ah, Maurice! a thousand times I wish I had fallen sword in
hand at Almarez, rather than lingered here, enduring for these past
ten days the extremes of mental and bodily agony. Yet had I only
received a moment's warning, I question much if that officer of the
Scottish chasseurs could have cut me down so easily."
"No. In truth you were an excellent swordsman, Victor,—sharp
of eye, and sure of hand."
"I trust, Maurice, you will not be long a prisoner. 'Twas a sad
blank in my life, my captivity. Faith! mon camarade, I almost shiver
at remembrance of the castle of Edinburgh. You will remember me
to Louis Chateaufleur and the rest of your regiment; and do so
particularly to my own, should you ever fall in with them on service."
He spoke now with more difficulty, and at longer intervals. "Glory to
France, and long life to the great Emperor! I trust he will think Major
D'Estouville has done his duty. Almarez I defended to the last; and,
Maurice, had you not cut the pontoon, we might have effected our
retreat. The emperor would have saved four hundred soldiers of his
noble old Guard."
"And your life, Victor."
"A mere bagatelle! I lay it down in his service."
"Vive l'Empereur!" cried some of his soldiers, who lay within
hearing on their pallets of straw. The shout was taken up by many,
and echoed through distant parts of the chapel. D'Estouville's eye
flashed brightly; he waved his hand as he would have brandished his
sword, and, exhausted with speaking, and the emotions which the
gallant battle-cry aroused within him, he again sank backwards, and
by the spasms which crossed his pallid features, they saw too surely
that the moment of death was nigh. Again rousing himself from his
lethargy, he beckoned to Ronald, who knelt down beside him.
"I would speak to you of Diane de Montmichel," he whispered,
in tremulous and broken accents. "Her husband, Monsieur le Baron—
de Clappourknuis—the letter I gave you at Truxillo; ah! mon ami, do
you not understand me?"
"Indeed I do not, D'Estouville."
"The hand of the grim king of terrors is upon me; the sands of
life are ebbing fast, and my voice will fail me soon. Monsieur le
Baron—"
"Is released from the castle of Albuquerque, and has passed
over to the French lines. Think not of these, D'Estouville."
"I—I would give you a message to Diane."
"Alas! how can I ever deliver it?"
"Find means, croix Dieu!" muttered he piteously. "Kneel closer
to me. I depend on your honour, Monsieur Stuart. Diane—Diane—"
"What of her? Say—say, ere it be too late!"
 But there was no reply. What the Frenchman would have said,
expired on his lips, and he fell back speechless on the hard knapsack
which formed his pillow.
He never spoke again; but in a few minutes died, and without a
struggle.

CHAPTER XIV.
DE MESMAI.

"Ah, me! how mournful, wan, and slow,

With arms reversed, the soldiers come;
Dirge-sounding trumpets full of woe,
And, sad to hear, the muffled drum!"
John Mayne.

The death-bed scene of poor D'Estouville, although it made on the

witnesses of it a deep impression for the time, was easily passed
over when the feelings are blunted and deadened by the continual
excitement of campaigning. They had scarcely left the chapel or
hospital, before the shade of sorrow which their faces had worn
disappeared. Macdonald went away on some duty; Stuart's thoughts
reverted to his arrest, and the disagreeable predicament in which he
was placed; while De Mesmai began to talk in his usual light and
careless style. He placed his scarlet forage-cap very much on one
side, tightened his sash, arranging the tassels gracefully, and stuck
his glass in his eye to ogle and scrutinize the females who passed.
"Poor Victor!" said he; "a merrier comrade or more gallant
soldier than he was, there is not in the imperial service. Many a
glorious evening we have had in Paris, flirting with the jolies
grisettes of the Rue des Trois Maries,—fighting with the
gendarmerie, and amusing ourselves by frolicking with messieurs the
good-natured bourgeois,—some dozen of whom we have ducked in
the Seine. These days are all passed away, and poor Victor is gone
to his long home. War leads to death or glory, and his fate to-day
maybe ours to-morrow; so, then, what is the utility of being cast
down? Vive la joie! let us live and be merry while we can. Praised be
our stars! here is a wine-house, where we can spend the evening in
a jovial style, and scare away from our hearts the gloom cast upon
them by the death of D'Estouville. Diable! mon ami; for what do you
stare so at that old ruinous mansion?"
"'Tis the house of the Villa Franca family. I received great
kindness from them, when I came to Merida for the first time."
"A picturesque ruin it makes, with its shattered capitals and
empty windows. D'Estouville's grenadiers did all that. I have heard
that he carried off a very pretty creature from this place, at least so
Chateaufleur of ours told me. He had her at Almarez; but, like a
cunning dog, kept her closely out of my sight, lest I might have
procured her transfer to the tower of Ragusa, when I was left in
temporary command. But we had plenty of girls there, by the Pope!
We captured a score of plump young paisanas; but their skins were
devilish brown, and their hands were all chapped with milking goats
and cows. Here is the wine-house,—but, morbleu! I have not one
infernal sous to clink upon another!"
"I have, mon camarade," said Stuart, producing a purse
containing forty duros, which he had borrowed from Major Campbell,
to procure favour with whom he was obliged to endure two long
stories about Egypt.
"Sacre! forty duros? A lucky dog and a most gorgeous display,
—'pon honour—really. Enter then, and we will drink a long glassful
to the continuance of the war."
From the wine-house they adjourned to the Prado, where they
strolled about under the shade of the rich orange-trees, or lounged
on the wooden sofas. De Mesmai smoked a cigar, and kept up, to
use a camp phrase, a running fire of words, and laughed heartily at
his own jokes; while Ronald listened in silence, and surveyed with
feelings of mortification the regiment on its evening parade, from
which for the present he was excluded.
"Fine fellows, these bare-kneed Celts of yours, Monsieur Stuart,"
said De Mesmai, as he knocked the ashes from his cigar. "A goodly
row of most captivating brown legs they have. How pretty the
waving tartan seemed, as the corps wheeled from open column into
line. They call forth the admiration of the ladies too,—the delightful
creatures! Really, 'pon honour, I think they peep more at the Scottish
plaids and plumes, than at this smart uniform and bright steel
bourgoinette of mine. A gallant chevalier your colonel is. He gives his
orders with that firm tone of authority which marks the true, the
bold-hearted soldier, and one born to command. A soldado of most
goodly proportions is that long-legged field-officer, who last night
bored me to death about Egypt, and his campaigns there. Body o'
the Pope! look at that girl."
"Which?"
"With the black veil hung over the high comb. What a roguish
black eye and most excessively attractive pair of ankles she has! I
will speak to her. Ho! ma princesse—"
"Beware what you do, De Mesmai," interrupted Ronald hastily.
"She is a lady, and one of rank evidently, by the lace embroidery on
her stomacher and mantilla. Some officers of the 39th are with her,
too."
"Diable! so I now perceive; and one of your savage Scots
chasseurs, I think."
"Savage!" repeated Stuart, dubious whether to laugh or frown.
"He is an officer of the Highland Light Infantry,—that corps with the
tartan trews, and bonnets without feathers. By Jove! 'tis Armstrong;
the same officer who cut down poor D'Estouville at Almarez. He is
flirting with this young lady, and recks no more of the deadly stroke
he gave, than if he had killed a muircock. Let us move on. The
Highlanders will march past this way, and I little like to be sitting
here like an out-cast from them,—and without my sword too, by
heavens!"
"A prisoner of war,—diable! Me voila à votre service. I will go
with you wherever you please. But there are more girls congregated
here, to see the troops on evening parade, than in any other part of
this ruinous old city of Merida. In France they love, like the
butterflies, to be in the sun; but here they promenade under the
cold shades of the trees, or sail about beneath their gloomy damp
piazzas. By the way, it has a most singularly picturesque effect, a tall
graceful figure with a fluttering veil and floating mantilla gliding
under these old arches; quite mysterious, in fact. Look, for instance,
at that lovely creature with the auburn tresses. Tête-dieu! how I
long to wheel that girl round in a waltz. Ha! there is a rouge-et-noir
table not far from this, and a thought strikes me; I shall make my
fortune to-night. Will you lend me a couple of these dazzling duros
you showed me a short time ago?"
"Undoubtedly, and with pleasure."
"Vive la joie! Come along, then. There is a gaming-house in the
Calle de Ferdinando, kept by some officers of the Portuguese
caçadores. Come with me, and I will show you how to break their
bank, and carry off their glorious piles of duros and dobloons."
"I never gamble," replied Ronald; "and by the rules of our
service 'tis strictly forbidden to do so, either in camp or quarters."
"Bah! mon camarade. If I had you within sound of the bells of
Notre Dame, I would soon learn you to forget your northern
prejudices."
Stuart's remonstrances and protestations were made in vain.
The gay impetuosity of the Frenchman overcame them all; and while
arguing about the matter they arrived at the door, where a board,
painted red on one side and black on the other, announced that the
rouge-et-noir table was kept there. A crowd of English, Portuguese,
and German officers were pressing round the table, at the head of
which sat the banker, a swarthy Portuguese officer of light infantry,
with a long cigar in his mouth, and having heaped up before him
several piles of dollars, doubloons, and British guineas,—all of which
were rapidly changing hands, at every turn of the red and black
cards.
 Stuart remarked that there was not a single Scottish bonnet in
the room, and his national abhorrence of gambling caused him
absolutely to blush at being there. He was disgusted at the wild
eagerness, the intense anxiety, the bitter disappointment, fierce
anguish, or cruel triumph which he witnessed in the features of the
players. The two dollars De Mesmai had borrowed were soon added
to the goodly pile which lay before an officer of the 39th; and urged
on by the former, Ronald betted on several cards, all of which turned
up fatally, and he had the mortification to behold every one of his
remaining dollars swept across the table in quick succession, and
coolly pocketed by a fierce-looking Spanish officer of De Costa's
brigade, who evidently thought it no sin to gamble, although he
wore on his left breast the enamelled red cross of Calatrava, a
religious order of knighthood.[*] Ronald rushed away from the hell,
feeling absolutely furious at his own folly and at De Mesmai, who,
however, continued at the table in hopes of borrowing from some
one.

[*] Instituted by Don Santio of Toledo, in 1130.

The lesson was not lost on Stuart, who, from that day until this, has
never touched a card. But that night's play left him literally
penniless, and in a strange city. He was ashamed to apply to any of
his brother-officers, or expose his folly to them; and as Gordon, the
regimental paymaster, had not received the arrears of pay, there was
nothing to be hoped for from him. It was now dusk, and he was
wandering among the groves of olive and willow that flourish by the
sedgy banks of the Guadiana and overhang its current. Here, while
pursuing the narrow pathway by the river-side, he was surprised by
seeing the figure of Dugald Mhor Cameron, the colonel's private
servant, standing at a short distance from him; a sure sign that
Cameron himself was not far off.
Dugald Mhor (or big Dugald) was an aged but hardy Highlander,
from the country of the Cameron, or the land of the great Lochiel on
the banks of Loch Linnhe, among the wild dark mountains of Lorn
and Morven,—the Morven of Ossian. From these he came to follow
the son of the laird through the continental wars, and he had been
by the side of Cameron in every battle in which the corps had been
engaged in Egypt, Denmark, Holland, Portugal, and Spain, and had
been twice wounded,—once at Bergen-op-Zoom, and again at the
battle of Alexandria in Egypt. Dugald was nearly seventy years of
age, yet his well-knit frame was strong and muscular as that of a
horse, and his hair was white as snow; while his face was as dark as
his tartan, by constant exposure to the weather.
With the broad blue bonnet over his thin white haffets, the
heavy-belted plaid cast over his gallant breast, the dirk, the pistol,
and the claymore dangling at his belt, his strong bare limbs, and the
brass-studded Highland target slung on his shoulder, Dugald Mhor
was the beau-ideal of the loyal old Jacobite of the 'forty-five;' that
period when the star of the Stuarts, amid the last blaze of the true
Scottish spirit, flashed-forth but to vanish for ever. It need scarcely
be added that old Dugald was a stanch Jacobite. He had witnessed
the battle of Culloden, whither, as a sort of page or attendant gilly,
he had followed Cameron of Lochiel. Since the day Fassifern left his
home to follow the drum, Dugald Mhor had been to him a kind of
standing orderly, friend, sometimes a governor, but always a leal
true northern henchman, that would cheerfully have laid down his
life, if by doing so he should have pleased his master.
When Stuart beheld this kilted vassal of the colonel's standing
on the narrow path before him, he was sure that the latter could be
at no great distance; a flush suffused his cheek, and he became
confused at the idea of encountering so proud and fiery a man while
lying under his displeasure. A turn of the path brought him in view
of Cameron, who was just bidding adieu to Sir Rowland Hill. To avoid
a rencontre now seemed impossible. The general rode off in the
opposite direction, while Cameron advanced straight towards Ronald
by the narrow footway at the river-side.
"Well, Mr. Stuart," said he frankly; "this morning from my trusty
Dugald Mhor I received and perused your long letter concerning
your absence, for which I believe I must excuse you. It was a very
unfortunate affair that of the Spanish lady's death; but every means
must be taken to discover this rascal, Micer Cifuentes. How deeply
you colour! I trust I have said nothing to offend? Ah! I comprehend
the matter fully now, by your confusion. There was a great deal
more in that letter than what met the eye, though it was very
cunningly worded. But it will not do in these days, even in Spain, to
ride to the rescue of every distressed damsel, and a knight-errant in
a red coat is a strange anomaly. But I believe there was much more
of love than chivalry in the affair; therefore, Stuart, I pass it over, as
I trust it will never occur again."
"To that, colonel, I may pledge you my word of honour; one
such adventure is quite enough for a life-time."
"You are aware how far I might have carried this matter; for one
who commands a Highland regiment, composed of such fiery spirits,
and so different from the line generally, must be strict. Your absence
has made a noise through the whole division, and I have just been
making your peace with Sir Rowland Hill, who is very favourably
disposed towards you, in consequence of the dashing manner in
which you led the stormers on at Almarez, and for this last affair,—
the capture of d'Erlon's aide-de-camp. How very unluckily the count
escaped! He would have been a noble prize to have sent to Britain.
The adjutant will send you your sword; and remember not to be
restive at the mess, as it is probable you will be severely quizzed,
the officers having heard of this Spanish donna, and got a version of
the story very different from the real one."
That night Ronald returned to his billet with a lighter heart than
he had felt since the death of Catalina. His trusty squire of the body,
Evan Iverach, on learning the low state of his exchequer, pressed
upon him a purse of dollars, which he had carefully saved up from
his pay with the intention of purchasing a silver-mounted set of
pipes for his father Donald, the old piper at Lochisla. Ronald, with
much reluctance, took the money as a loan, Evan vowing if he did
not, he would throw it out of the window into the Guadiana, which
ran below it. Any chagrin he had felt at being put under arrest, was
entirely obliterated by the hearty congratulations and welcome he
received from the officers assembled on parade next morning. But
his indignation was soon called forth again by the manner in which
Louis Lisle greeted him. On advancing towards him with his
outstretched hand, Lisle bestowed upon him a cold and angry
glance, turned on his heel, and withdrew to a distant part of the
parade. Ronald's fiery blood boiled up within him; and, had not the
memory of Alice arisen in his mind, subduing and softening him, he
would there and then have called her brother to an account for his
singular conduct. But smothering his indignation, he returned to the
group of officers with a flushed brow and an angry eye, to have his
temper sorely tried for some time about the Spanish lady, with
regard to whom many stories had been circulated at the mess-table.
On the evening of that day the streets of Merida rang to the
echo of muffled drums and the sad notes of the military dead march,
as the funeral of D'Estouville passed on its way to the church of San
Juan, attended with similar honours as would have been shown to a
British officer of the same rank.
The sword and cap, bearing the badges of the brave old Guard,
were laid on the lid of his coffin, the pall of which was borne by
Fassifern, and five other field-officers. His countryman, De Mesmai,
acted as chief mourner. Another officer of the French medical staff,
who was also a prisoner in Merida, attended likewise. A smile of
pleasure kindled in the proud eye of the cuirassier as the mournful
procession passed between the ranks of the first brigade, leaning on
their arms reversed, and lining the streets on both sides. He was
well pleased at the sentiments of generosity and chivalry which
directed Sir Rowland Hill to evince the same respect to the remains
of a foe that would have been paid to those of a friend; and De
Mesmai was one who knew well how to appreciate them. The
grenadiers of the Gordon Highlanders formed outside the church,
under the command of Major Campbell, and fired three volleys in the
air, while the grave closed over the remains of what was once a gay
and a gallant heart. The officers of the first brigade of infantry would
have erected a monument to the memory of D'Estouville, but it was
known that it would be demolished by the Spaniards the moment
the British left the city; therefore the idea was abandoned, and the
tomb of the guardsman lies unmarked and unknown under the
chancel of the great church at Merida, a few feet in front of the
mutilated monument erected to the memory of Francisco Pizarro of
Truxillo. At the wine casa and the rouge-et-noir table De Mesmai was
loud that night in praises of British generosity and gallantry; but
these he suddenly changed for something very like invectives, when
he was informed that, by day-light next morning, he must be
prepared to accompany a detachment of sick and prisoners, who
were ordered to the rear.
"And where is our destination, monsieur, if I may inquire?"
asked he of Claude A——, the adjutant of the Gordon Highlanders,
who had made the communication to him in French. "Some gay
place, I hope. Lisbon is it?"
"The castle of Albuquerque, I believe."
"Tête Dieu! a most detestable and gloomy hole! And I am to be
mewed up there, am I, monsieur?"
"For the present, until an opportunity occurs for your
transmission to some strong garrison-town, across the Portuguese
frontier, or home to Britain."
"You are exceedingly kind, Monsieur Officier, by the name of the
bomb! most superbly so. But I trust that dilatory little devil, General
the Count d'Erlon, will save you all this trouble. And as for my
transmission to England—diable! I should be sorry his Britannic
majesty's government should take so much concern in my affairs."
He smiled sourly, and twirled his black moustaches. "Ha! and what
sort of being is the officer who commands on the way to
Albuquerque? I hope he will halt at La Nava: I left a sweetheart
there twelve months ago, with whom I must leave my card in
passing. But the officer,—is he a jovial trump, that will drink and play
deep,—stride, swagger, and swear like a Hector?"
"None of ours are much given to any of these habits," answered
Claude drily. "The Honourable Louis Lisle commands."
"Lisle! An ensign is he not? A pretty boy with yellow curls, more
like the Duchess de Choiseul's page than a belted soldier? Ah! we
shall get on famously. Such a chit will not cross me in my
amusements with these don Spaniards. De Mesmai of Quinsay under
the orders of a young Scots sub-lieutenant! Ho, ho! excellent. But,
body o' the Pope! tell me, monsieur, am I really to be kept in the
castle of Albuquerque?"
"Captain de Mesmai, I have already told you," replied the
adjutant, turning to go.
"Then permit me to acquaint you, monsieur, that such treatment
is tacitly saying you doubt that sacred word of honour which I
pledged to Ensign Ronald Stuart, when, as an officer and gentleman,
I surrendered myself to him on parole. This being the case, that
parole is dissolved; and I consider myself at liberty to effect my
escape where, when, and how I please, without dishonour."
"As you choose," answered Claude quickly. "But remember, you
will probably be shot in the attempt; or if retaken, will be degraded
to the rank of a private dragoon,—what in your service you call a
simple cavalier. Remember, monsieur, to be on the alert at day-
break; you will hear the sound of the warning pipes as they pass
under the piazzas of your billet."
With Lisle's detachment De Mesmai departed next morning for
Albuquerque, but by some means effected his escape on the route
there. He afterwards fell into the hands of some of the guerillas of
Don Salvador de Zagala's band, by whom he was treated with less
kindness and courtesy than he had received at Merida, and with
whom I must for the present leave him.

CHAPTER XV.
THE HEIGHTS OF ALBUERA. THE CROSS OF SANTIAGO.

"Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons!
Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons.

"Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one;
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one."
Pibroch of Donuildhu.

On the night of the 11th, or rather the morning of the 12th of June,
Ronald was awakened from sleep by an officer, who occupied the
same billet, entering his chamber half dressed.
"Rouse, Stuart," said he; "something strange has happened.
There is a noise and bustle over the whole town."
 "I have heard nothing yet, Kennedy," answered the other,
springing out of bed, and with military instinct donning his
regimentals hastily in the dark. "You have aroused me from the most
pleasant nap I have enjoyed for these six months past."
"Hark! there go the pipes."
"'Tis not the turn-out. What can be the matter? 'tis still two
hours from day-break. We shall be roughing it again with D'Erlon or
Drouet, I suppose."
"The pipes have ceased," said Kennedy, throwing open the
casement, where the voices of the musicians were heard engaged in
a quarrel.
"Plaw the warning, Hector Macfarlane, you very great sumph!"
exclaimed Macdonuil-dhu, the piper-major, in great wrath. "Was it
Hoggil nam Bo,—the pibroch of your ain mushroom name, I desired
you to plaw?"
"Oich, prut trut!" replied Macfarlane fiercely. "I do suppose tat
ta lads o' Lochsluai are as good and as pretty men, and bear as auld
a name, as ony Macdonald o' the Isles. Diaoul!"
"Hoch, Got tam! it's mutiny and repellion this! Did ye move yer
hand to yer dirk, Macfarlane?" asked Macdonald furiously. "Did ye
grip yer dirk to threaten me?"
"It's a far cry to Lochowe. Gin you and I strode there, ye would
na cock your feather or craw sae crouse," said the other coolly. "It's
piper-matchor you are, and sorrow tak the hoor that Hector
Macfarlane, the son of Rori-bheg, has to obey your orders!" The
angry reply of the non-commissioned officer was lost in the sound of
the war-pipe, the drones of which Macfarlane threw over his
shoulder, and strode down the street swelling with Highland
indignation, while he made Merida ring far and wide to the tune of
Johnnie Cope, the warning for the march, while the drums, bugles,
and trumpets of other regiments, horse and foot, were heard in
various parts of the echoing city.
"Holloa! Serjeant Macdonald, what is all this noise and uproar
about?" asked Stuart.
"I ken nae mair than an unporn pairn, sir," replied the leader of
the pipers; "put it's a tammed cauld morning to rouse puir chields
frae their plankets. There is a soughing meeserable Hanoverian wind
plawing frae the east, sharp enough to skin our pare hoghs, and be
tammed tilt! And that trunken loon, Macfarlane, has sae mony
queghsfu' under his belt, that he took the dorts, and in spite o' a'
orders blew the pibroch o' Lochsloy. A ponnie thing for him—the son
o' Roribheg, a riever, hanged at Crieff for liftin', to speak in defiance
at me!"
The voice of the adjutant bawling for his horse was now heard,
as he issued from under the piazzas, attended by an orderly with a
lighted lantern, to collect the reports and get the companies
mustered. The men were already falling in at the alarm post, and
the musquet-butts were heard clattering heavily on the pavement,
as one by one they took their places in the ranks.
"Stuart, don your fighting jacket; pack up your best scarlets for
a ball when we reach Madrid," cried Claude, as he passed the
window. "We are about to show Mr. Soult the point of war,

'Gin he meets us in the morning,'

as the song says. A despatch has within this hour arrived from
Wellington, and we are ordered off to the front forthwith, to prevent
Estremadura being invaded. Turn out as soon as you can; the corps
are nearly all mustered in our Plaza de Armas. Ho, there! orderly
drummer; beat for the coverers! Fall in, covering Serjeants!"
The grey day-light was now beginning to make objects visible.
The sky was clear, and of a cold and dark blue, and a chilling blast
swept through the dull and gloomy streets, where all was martial
bustle and preparation. While dressing himself with more haste than
care, Stuart heard the voice of Cameron and the adjutant ordering
and directing the serjeant-major; he in turn bawled to the Serjeants
of companies, who were vociferously calling the rolls, in which an
immense number of Jocks, and Tams, and Donalds followed each
other in succession. All was commotion and 'hurry-skurry,' amid
which De Costa's brigade of Spanish horse galloped past,
brandishing their swords, and shouting, "Arma! arma! Viva! Viva!"
with might and main. General Long's brigade of British followed, but
in characteristic silence.
To prevent Marshal Soult from invading Estremadura from the
neighbouring province, Sir Rowland Hill marched his brigades of
horse and foot to Sancho Perez, collecting from Zafra and other
places on his march all the Spanish and Portuguese troops he could
bring together to meet the enemy, who advanced towards him in
great strength, plundering and destroying the grain and vines on
their route. At Zafra they attacked and defeated an advanced corps
of Spanish dragoons, commanded by the Condé Penne Villamur.
Animated by this success, Soult continued to press forward at the
head of thirty-eight or forty thousand men; and Sir Rowland Hill
prudently fell back upon the heights of Albuera with his division,
twenty-two thousand strong. There he took up a position, which
every means were taken to strengthen by the erection of trenches,
breastworks, and traverses, at the formation of which fatigue-parties
wrought day and night. Fresh troops joined them here daily, and
Ronald heard, with considerable pleasure, that Don Alvaro's troop of
lances were expected to join the Spanish brigade. Alvaro's command
was a sort of independent troop, unattached to any regiment, like
les compagnies franches, the free troops or companies, in the old
French service. The second division occupied this entrenched
position twelve days, awaiting the appearance of Soult, who
advanced no nearer than Santa Martha, a town about a long day's
march distant. He showed no disposition to fight a second battle of
Albuera, the ground being so strong and its occupiers so
determined, that the heights could only have been captured with
immense loss,—if indeed Soult could have carried them at all. On the
first night after the position was taken up, a blunder of Evan's
caused no ordinary commotion throughout the camp.
At the base of the heights, where a stream called the Albuera
runs, he was posted as an advanced sentinel in a most wild and
dreary spot. A wide and desolate plain, stretching away towards
Santa Martha, lay before him; black ridges like waves of ink rose
behind; and all around were scattered the ghastly remnants of the
battle fought on the ground twelve months previously. The night was
gloomy and dark, the sky was starless, and not a sound broke the
solemn stillness of the hour save the Albuera, brawling and gurgling
along that deep and savage-looking ravine, by means of which the
French had out-flanked the Spaniards. Excepting the murmur of the
mountain-torrent, all was silent as the tomb; not a blade of grass
was stirring, and those gloomy fantasies, so apt to fill the strong
imagination of a Highlander, arose appallingly before Evan. Anxiously
and intently he had fixed his eyes on some shrubbery or tall weeds,
which appeared in the twilight afar off. These his heated imagination
transformed into battalions of foot and squadrons of horse,
advancing stealthily over the plain. He fired his musquet, and retired
on the main body of his picquet, which lay within an abbatis
composed of cork trees, felled and intertwined for a breast-work
around them. The whole camp rose in arms, expecting instantly to
be attacked, but the dawn revealed the cause of Evan's mistake. A
few days after Soult had taken possession of Santa Martha, Ronald
had the command of one of the picquets thrown out in that
direction. All were on the alert, as the enemy were continually
expected to advance from their cantonments. The picquet, which
consisted of thirty Highlanders, occupied the summit of a rocky
eminence; where, piling their arms, they lay down on the green
sward to watch the sun, as it verged towards the western horizon,
glittering on the polished arms of solitary sentinels and videttes
posted at equal distances along the banks of the rocky river, and in
front of that dark forest from the bosom of which its waters came. A
Spanish sunset is a glorious scene in June, but which of the
Highlanders there would have exchanged the Scottish pine or purple
heath, for the olive grove or clustering grapes of Spain? Ronald was
seated in a grassy nook, employed in conning over the pages of the
Madrid Gaceta, when he was roused by the trampling of hoofs and
clang of harness. He sprang up in time to see the shining helmets of
a hundred French cuirassiers flashing in the sun-beams, as they
issued successively from a deep and narrow gorge on his left, into
which they had contrived to penetrate and advance unseen,—
evading thus the sentinels of the other picquets.
"Death and fury! we are lost men. Our retreat is cut off! Stand
to your arms," cried he, drawing his sword. "Form circle round the
face of the rock,—show your front to them! Be cool, and steadily
take your aim. Keep up your fire till the cavalry picquets in front of
the wood ride to our rescue. Ha! the gallant 9th are in their saddles
already."
With coolness and precision his orders were obeyed. The brave
little band, aware of the power of foot over horse, formed circle
round the eminence, and opened a close and well-directed fire,
before which the cuirassiers were compelled to waver, recoil, and
stay for some minutes their headlong charge, being impeded and
entangled with falling men and horses; and the former, if not dead
when they fell, were soon trodden to death by the hoofs of the rear
rank.
"Charge!" cried the officer, a dashing fellow, who led them on.
"Charges en queue la troupe!" and firing their pistols, they came
furiously forward sword in hand, making the turf shake as they
thundered along. It was a critical moment for the little band! A sharp
twinge in his left shoulder informed Ronald that a pistol-shot had
taken effect there, depriving him of the use of his arm; and several
of his men lay killed and wounded among the feet of their comrades,
who could not help feeling a little dismayed at the overwhelming
number of their opponents.
"Keep up your fire, brave Highlanders! stand fast, true
Scotsmen!" cried Stuart, brandishing his claymore. "Aim deliberately
and level low; strike below the corslet. Courage, my boys! 'tis all for
our lives. They will kill, as they cannot capture. Hold your ground;
keep shoulder to shoulder, and give them the bayonet at the face of
the rocks. Hurrah! well done, my own brave comrades! We shall be
rescued instantly."
The cuirassiers advanced in a semi-circle boldly enough; but the
steady fire of their opponents caused them again to recoil.
"Vive l'Empereur! Chateaufleur, Chateaufleur! retournez la
charge. Charge!" cried the officer again, and again the serried ranks
came rushing on with renewed impetuosity; but they were once
more driven back, leaving the ground strown with writhing men and
steeds. A few resolutely pressed forward in the rashness of their
daring, and struck at the defenders of the rock across the ridge of
deadly bayonets which protruded over it. But they were at once
destroyed, shot and bayoneted. One soldier, who was cut across the
face, clubbed his musquet and dashed out the brains of his
adversary. And one powerful French dragoon grasped the Serjeant of
the picquet, and attempted to drag him down by main strength from
the rock; but Ronald saved him, by plunging his sword through the
corslet of the Frenchman, who tumbled from his saddle, and was
dragged away down the ravine of the Albuera by his affrighted
horse.
The rock was again free, but not entirely so, as the cuirassiers,
who were reduced to half their original number, were preparing to
renew the attack, which appeared to be general along the whole
chain of outposts, as the sound of firing was heard in every
direction. The picquets of the 39th and 66th regiments, on the right
and left, were retiring rearward on the heights, firing as they fell
back, on bodies of the enemy's cavalry which were advancing over
the plain. Ronald beheld all the other out-picquets retiring in safety.
His alone had been cut off, and by means of that accursed ravine!
His little party were now reduced to sixteen effective men, and he
gave them and himself up for lost. But aid was nigh; part of De
Costa's cavalry, lying in front of the wood, were ordered forward by
Sir Rowland Hill to his rescue. Onward they came with the speed of
the wind, bearing death on the points of their spears. Ronald beheld
with delight that it was the troop of Alvaro de Villa Franca, who had
just joined De Costa, which was moving to his aid. As they came on,
they raised the old battle cry of Spain. "San Jago, y cierra España!"
was the shout, as they swept gallantly on in a compact mass,—horse
to horse, helms and corslets glancing, plumes and pennons waving.
"Senora Beatificada strengthen our spears!" cried Alvaro,
rushing forward with his uplifted sword. "Follow me, Montesa! Saint
James and Close Spain! Stand, Frenchmen, if ye be true cavaliers!
Viva! San Jago, y cierra España! Cerrar con el enemigos!"
The lances of the front rank sunk to the rest, while those of the
rear protruded over the casques of the former, and onward still they
pressed, shaking the very rock from which the rescued picquet
viewed this new conflict. Not a whit dismayed at the number or
character of their opponents, the undaunted cuirassiers met them
half-way, and a most gallant hand-to-hand conflict ensued. The
scene when the adversaries first met was a perfect combat in the
style of the days of chivalry,—the realization of a scene of romance.
The proud battle-cry of the Spaniards, answered by the 'Vive
l'Empereur!' of the French,—the crash of lances, splintering on
casque and corslet,—the clash of blades,—the tramp of hoofs,—the
dust,—the blood,—the groans and shrieks,—the curses, the spurring
and prancing, as the parties intermingled,—the brown uniforms and
the blue,—the steel helmets and the brass,—the red plumes and the
black,—the tall spears and uplifted sabres flashing in the setting sun,
—the gaudy standard of the Spaniards,—the eagled guidon of the
French, fluttering and waving above the conflict—the dead and the
wounded trodden heedlessly below,—formed altogether a most
exciting and soul-stirring scene.
Alvaro distinguished himself in no ordinary degree. The long
horse-hair on his crest was seen dancing up and down amidst the
thickest of the mélée, and whenever his sword descended, a saddle
was emptied by the blow. But Ronald could not remain long to
witness the valour of his friend, although he eagerly wished to do
so. He drew off the remnant of his picquet, and crossing the
Albuera, retired into the trenches of the camp, where of course the
whole division were under arms.
The outposts were driven in on all sides; and satisfied with this
display, Soult brought off his cavalry, who had suffered severely in
the contest. Ronald's wound was found to be severe; but the
shoulder-blade had escaped fracture, and as soon as it was dressed,
he rejoined his company with his arm slung. On the disappearance
of the French, the troops piled arms, and all was again the same as
before, save the plain in front of Albuera, which was strewn with
dead and wounded, and other relics of the skirmish.
As Stuart sat in his tent, writing an account of the day's fray for
Lochisla, the door became darkened, and Don Alvaro, entering,
grasped him by the hand. He was pale with fatigue, and Ronald
knew, by the increased gravity and sorrow imprinted on his features,
that he was aware of his sister's death, and that it lay heavy on his
heart.
"Amigo mio," said he, "a minute later had seen your brave
picquet cut to pieces. We drove back these gay cuirassiers in
glorious style, fighting, like true soldados, at point of sword and
spear every inch of the way."
"I have a thousand thanks to return you, Don Alvaro, for the
dauntless manner in which you rode to the rescue. These cuirassiers
were tough fellows, and fought with a bravery, equalled only by that
of their opponents."
"Stay, senor; there is another subject on which I would rather
converse with you, than of our hourly occupation of fighting," replied
Villa Franca, as he cast aside his leather gauntlets, and unclasping
his helmet, wiped the dust from his swarthy face and dark
moustaches. "Catalina, my idolized sister,—I would ask you about
her?"
Stuart's heart beat quicker. "You have then heard?" said he
sorrowfully.
"Yes, senor; from Ignacio El Pastor, a priest of Estremadura, I
learned the terrible intelligence. I fell in with him near Badajoz,
when bearing your letter to my cousin and wife Donna Inesella. I
took the liberty of opening it, and making myself master of its
contents; and thus became aware of my sister's dishonour and
deplorable murder. Don Ronald Stuart, there is something very
singular in all that affair; and I must request that you will give me a
detailed account of the whole occurrence, without the omission of a
single circumstance, for the truth of which I hold your honour, as a
cavalier and soldier."
 "How is this, Senor Alvaro?" replied Ronald, alike surprised and
displeased at the tone and bearing of the Spaniard. "I consider it
next to an impossibility that you should suspect me of any thing
wrong, or of leaving any thing undone."
"Amiga mio, your pardon. I spoke somewhat hastily; but when I
mention the tumult of this day's conflict, and the excitement which
the recollection of my dear and beautiful sister arouses within me, I
have a sufficient apology." He leant against the pole of the tent and
covered his face with his hands, betraying an emotion in which
Ronald could not but participate. "Pardon me, Senor Stuart,"
continued the cavalier, "you loved my poor sister too well to deserve
that I should judge harshly of you; but say on, and tell all you know
of her dreadful death."
The Spaniard stretched himself on the turf floor of the tent, and
resting on his helmet, leant his head upon his hand, and fixing his
keen dark eyes upon Ronald's, listened to the account given by the
latter of her death. He began with his meeting her at Almarez, and
without concealing a single sentiment which had animated them, or
an observation which had passed, he continued the narrative down
to the hour of her burial at the convent of Jarciejo. But both became
greatly excited as the tale proceeded. Love, sorrow, and indignation
caused Ronald's features to flush, and his brow to knit; but those of
the hot-brained Spaniard became black with fury, and convulsed with
the excess of those passions to which his tongue could not give
utterance. He wept and groaned, and grasped the hilt of his poniard
energetically. When Ronald ceased, he started from the ground, with
his large dark eyes flashing like those of an incarnate demon.
 "Moderate your transports, Don Alvaro; be calm, I beseech
you!" said Stuart, grasping him by the arm.
"Cavalier, your story has driven me to frenzy," cried he, through
his clenched teeth. "You cannot have loved Catalina as she deserved
to be loved, otherwise you would not be so calm in such a terrible
hour as this. Excuse me, senor; alas! I know not what I utter. You
come of a northern people, less prompt to ire and vengeance than
the fiery Spaniard. But much as you may have heard of Spanish
vengeance," said he, becoming suddenly calm, "all the tales that
have been told of it since the days of King Bamba or Roderick the
Goth will fall immeasurably short of mine. I have left no means
untried to capture Narvaez Cifuentes, but where the ban-dog lurks at
present I know not. But the hour of retribution will yet come, and
my fury will burst on his devoted brow like a thunderbolt." He sunk
upon his knees, and ratified a solemn vow of vengeance by kissing
the bare blade and cross-hilt of his stiletto. "Senor," said he, "is it the
custom in your native land to swear across the dagger?"[*]
[*] All oaths in courts of law, and others in Spain, are sworn across a sword or
dagger.

"In the days of my grandsire it was; and there are yet some among
our Scottish hills who consider none now binding, unless sworn over
the unsheathed dirk."
"'Tis well: it shows the military spirit of your people. Conform to
the present customs of Spain, and to those of your northern
ancestors. Swear with me, cavalier."
Promptly as Alvaro could have wished, Ronald unsheathed the
long Highland dirk with which he had lately equipped himself. It was
a handsome weapon set with jewels, and accoutred with knife and
fork, like the regimental dirks now worn by every Highland officer:
and across it he vowed to aid Alvaro in delivering Cifuentes up to
vengeance.
"This is well. I will now be calm," said the cavalier in a tone of
satisfaction. "You may have some scruples about slaying the dog
with your own hand; but deliver him over to the first alcalde, and he
will reserve him for the fury of Alvaro of Villa Franca."
"Such a reservation may do, should I meet him in camp or city;
but woe to him should we forgather in any desert spot,—my sword
and his heart will not be long asunder."
"Spoken like a true hidalgo, who needs no friend save his own
right hand. Our Lady del Pilar! slay me this earthly fiend, and I will
consider you as much my brother as if my sister, my sublime
Catalina, had wedded you at the altar. Although in truth, to be frank
with you, I would rather she had bestowed her hand on her cousin,
the Condé of Truxillo, a brave cavalier, who has loved her long and
dearly. What now, Pedro? Do you bring me the list of killed and
wounded?" said he, as Serjeant Gomez stood erect at the triangular
door of the tent, and brought his right hand up to the peak of his
helmet, in a sweeping military salute.
"The Valencian rogue, senor cavalier; how are we to dispose of
him?"
"Ha! I had forgotten. Right, my true soldado. A base goatherd,
senor," said he, turning to Ronald, "a most contemptible traitor, who
guided up the ravine those hundred cuirassiers who so nearly cut
your picquet off. Pedro captured the rogue after the skirmish. He is a
notorious spy and traitor. Where is he now, Pedro?"
"Tied hard and fast, like a Merino sheep, under the belly of my
Andalusian," answered Pedro with a grin.
"You had better turn him over to the provost-marshal of the
camp," said Ronald; "he will give him his deserts from the branch of
the nearest tree. The rascal! by his treachery to his country my
company has lost fourteen gallant hearts, and I have won this
wound."
"As he is a prisoner of mine," said Alvaro, "I will dispose of him,
and save senor the provost-marshal any trouble in the matter. Desire
a file of troopers to dismount and load their carbines,—no! that were
a waste of King Ferdinand's powder. Run your dagger into his throat,
Pedro, and see that you strike deep; then fling his carcase over the
rocks into the Albuera, and let it rot in that same ravine that he
knows so well."
Pedro disappeared, and almost instantly a prolonged shriek,
which startled the whole camp, announced that the unscrupulous
sargento had obeyed his orders to the very letter. Ronald was about
to express some abhorrence of this summary mode of execution,
when he was interrupted.
"Villa Franca," said a handsome Spanish cavalry officer, about
twenty years of age, appearing at the door of the tent; "the Condé
Penne Villamur wishes to see you. Our brigade and De Costa's have
been ordered to the front, as an advanced post. Such are the orders
of Sir Rowland Hill. The condé would speak with you without delay,
and our trumpets will sound 'to horse' in an hour."
"'Tis well, Lorenzo. I am in a true fighting mood to-day, and our
troop of lancers are in glorious order. The Marquess de Montesa of
Valencia," said Alvaro, introducing the stranger to Ronald, "the
senior lieutenant of my lances."
"A sharp skirmish that was, in which we were engaged a short
time ago, senor," said Montesa with a laugh. He was one of those
gay fellows who laugh at every thing. "We appear to have shared
alike in the misfortunes of war," he added, pointing to his left arm,
which was bound up in his red Spanish scarf.
"Ha, marquess! your presence reminds me of what other
thoughts had nearly driven from my memory. Look you, Senor Don
Ronald," said Alvaro, displaying a golden cross suspended by a red-
and-yellow riband. "We have been commissioned by my relative,
Alfonso de Conquesta, Grand-master of the military order of Saint
James of Spain, to invest you with this badge, and create you a
knight-companion of our most honourable order, as a reward for
your bravery at Almarez, accounts of which have been fully blazoned
forth by the Gacetas of Madrid and other places."