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.