Remaining quietly seated upon the grass, I stirred not for a moment, but addressing him who appeared to be the chief of the Guerillas, said, in Spanish:-- "These are my prisoners; I am a British officer of dragoons, and my party is yonder." This evidently unexpected declaration seemed to surprise them, and they conferred for a few moments together.

Meanwhile they were joined by two others, in one of whom we could recognize, by his costume, the real leader of the party.
"I am captain in the light dragoons," said I, repeating my declaration.
"_Morte de Dios!_" replied he; "it is false; you are a spy!" The word was repeated from lip to lip by his party, and I saw, in their lowering looks and darkened features, that the moment was a critical one for me.
"Down with your arms!" cried he, turning to the Frenchmen.

"Surrender yourselves our prisoners; I'll not bid ye twice!" The Frenchmen turned upon me an inquiring look, as though to say that upon me now their hopes entirely reposed.
"Do as he bids you," said I; while at the same moment I sprang to my legs, and gave a loud, shrill whistle, the last echo of which had not died away in the distance ere it was replied to.
[Illustration: THE TABLES TURNED.] "Make no resistance now," said I to the Frenchmen; "our safety depends on this." While this was passing two of the Spaniards had dismounted, and detaching a coil of rope which hung from their saddle-peak, were proceeding to tie the prisoners wrist to wrist; the others, with their carbines to the shoulder, covered us man by man, the chief of the party having singled out me as his peculiar prey.
"The fate of Mascarenhas might have taught you better," said he, "than to play this game." And then added with a grim smile, "But we'll see if an Englishman will not make as good a carbonado as a Portuguese!" This cruel speech made my blood run cold, for I knew well to what he alluded.

I was at Lisbon at the time it happened, but the melancholy fate of Julian Mascarenhas, the Portuguese spy, had reached me there.

He was burned to death at Torres Vedras! The Spaniard's triumph over my terror was short-lived, indeed, for scarcely had the words fallen from his lips, when a party of the Fourteenth, dashing through the river at a gallop, came riding up.