‘On!’ was all she said, forcing the Brass Mare through the village street. He followed, now seriously alarmed for her sanity, but unable to think of any way of stopping her. In a few minutes, the battlefield was reached, a stretch of rolling country covered with fields of wheat and rye which had been trampled down by countless hooves. A cross-road, a deep, sunken lane, leading to Wavre, marked the line of the Allied front. Where it bisected the chaussee, in the angle between the two roads, Juana saw mound upon mound of dead men, with soldiers near by, digging pits to throw the bodies into.

‘Oh, my God, missus, don’t look, don’t look!’ West begged. ‘Poor devils, they must have been killed in square! Oh, come away!’

She paid no heed to him, but addressed one of the men who were digging. ‘What regiment?’

The 27th, mum.’

Her eyes started; she said hoarsely: ‘Ours! one of ours! This was where he stood!’ The man stared at her. ‘Lambert’s brigade, mum. Was you looking for someone?’ ‘Major Smith!’ she managed to utter.

He shook his head. ‘I dunno, mum, I’m sure. The officers has mostly been buried.’ She became aware of graves, many graves, some with rough boards set up, others no more than mounds of freshly-turned sods. Suddenly it became of immense importance to look upon Harry’s face for the last time. She cried out in an anguished voice: ‘No, no, not buried! not buried! I must see him once more! I must, I must!’

Distracted, she began to ride from one grave to another, wildly reading the names scratched upon the rough crosses at their heads. She saw the body of a man lying a little way off, and spurred up to it, convinced it was Harry’s. The distorted face was strange to her; she passed on, searching frantically amongst the dead. Some Flemish peasants were dragging the stripped corpses to the pits, with hooks stuck callously through their heels; in the sunken road, and beyond it, French cuirassiers lay in tangled heaps of men, and breast-plates; a little farther, a sandpit yawned beside the chaussée, opposite a white farmstead whose walls were blackened and riddled by shot. Some green-jackets lay there, stiff and still under the hot sun. Juana began to moan, but softly, repeating over and over again: ‘Dear God, let me find him! Dear God, let me not be mad!’

She was unaware of West, dumbly following her; a wounded Frenchman groaned to her from the ground at her feet. He wanted water; she had none, and shook her head. Suddenly a voice penetrated to her brain. She heard her name called, and looked round in a blank way.

‘Juana, Juana, what are you doing here? My dear, it is not fit for you!’ A man on horseback rode up to her; she saw that it was Charlie Gore, and cried out: ‘Oh, where is he? Where is my Enrique?’

His voice, the one sane thing in a mad world, sounded reassuringly in her ears. ‘Why, near Bavay by this time, as well as ever he was in his life! Not wounded even, nor either of his brothers!’

‘Oh, dear Charlie Gore, why do you deceive me?’ she said in bitter reproach. ‘The soldiers told me Brigade-Major Smith was killed!’

‘Dearest Juana, believe me!’ Gore said, trying to take her hand. ‘It was poor Charlie Smyth who was killed-Pack’s Brigade-Major. I swear to you on my honour I left Harry riding Lochinvar, in perfect health, but very anxious about you!’

Her strained eyes searched his face. She said: ‘Oh, if I could believe you, Charlie, my heart must burst!’

‘Why should you doubt me?’ he said quietly. ‘You know I would not lie to you, and upon such a subject!’

She broke into a storm of weeping, bowed over the Brass Mare’s withers, and so shaken by sobs of sheer relief that West was afraid that the shock of hearing that Harry was safe had really turned her brain. But presently she managed to stop crying, and to straighten herself. Charlie Gore wiped her tears away with his handkerchief, murmuring a few soothing phrases.

‘I prayed to God for help, and He sent you, like a guardian angel!’ she said huskily. ‘How foolish you must think me, to cry so! Indeed, I am sorry, for crying women are the devil!’ He laughed to hear such an expression on her lips. ‘Ah, you had that from Harry, I know! But listen, amiga, I am on my way to Mons: can you muster strength to ride with me there?’ ‘Strength!’ she exclaimed. ‘Yes, for anything now!’

He was anxious to get her away from the battlefield, and urged her to push on at once. She was very willing, and they rode together down the chaussee, past the sand-pit, and the riddled farmhouse. He told her, when she asked, that it was called La Haye Sainte, and had been held by four hundred soldiers of the King’s German Legion. “They cut their way out at the end, forty left out of all their number! They had no ammunition. The French took the place towards the end of the day.’

‘And that other place? An officer of Hussars told me of a chateau that was burning, and could not be held.’

‘He was wrong,’ replied Gore. ‘You mean Hougoumont. Can you see that blackened ruin over to your right? That is it. The Guards held it to the very end.’

She looked timidly up into his face. ‘Was it as bad as Badajos, Charlie, this battle?’ He shuddered. ‘Juana, none of us has ever known a worse, not even those who were at Albuera! It was a horrible business! a slogging match! There was no manoeuvring, scarcely any Light troop work. We stood there to be pounded for eight solid hours, till those damned Prussians came up! At the end, the smoke was so dense where my brigade was placed that we could only see where the French were by the flashes of their pieces. Man after man went down; we were shot to pieces at Quatre-Bras: we could do nothing here but hold the line. But we did hold it! by God, how we held it, even though the Belgians in our front broke through, and ran for their lives! Picton extended my brigade and Pack’s in line two deep to fill the gap: a mass of infantry was advancing upon us. Picton fell, but we stood fast, till the cavalry came up from our rear, and smashed the French columns. Oh, I never saw anything to equal that charge!’

‘Is Picton dead?’ Juana demanded.

‘Oh, yes! He was killed as he gave the word to charge. At the last there was hardly a senior officer left standing on the field.’

‘Not the Duke!’

‘No, he came through untouched. By jove, it was as well he did so! We could not have done the thing without him. You know his way! Wherever the line was weakest, there he was, cool as if upon a field-day. While we could see his hooknose amongst us, there could be no thought of retreating! Ney tried everything: artillery, infantry, cavalry! I was talking to a fellow in Halkett’s brigade: he told me that on the other side of the. chaussée they were formed in squares for over an hour, while the French cavalry rode round and round, trying to break through! Then, just before eight o’clock, they attacked all along our front. The Middle Guard was sent against our right, in five huge columns. We could see nothing from where we stood, but they say Maitland’s Guards threw the leading column back first. And then Colborne right-shouldered the 52nd forward, and swept clean across the plain, driving the French before him like so many sheep! It was after that that we heard the cheering swelling along the front from our right, and knew that old Douro had given the signal for a general advance at last.’

‘And Napoleon is rompéd, really rompéd?’ she cried.

‘Oh, there were only three French squares still standing when Blücher took up the pursuit! There never was such a rout: Salamanca was nothing to it! But oh, Juanita, the losses we have suffered! our dearest friends! It doesn’t bear thinking of!’

‘Tell me!’ she said, in a low voice. ‘I must know. You said that Tom and Charles were safe?’ ‘Oh yes! And Kincaid hasn’t a scratch on him either. But poor Charlie Eeles, and Smyth, young Lister, Elliot Johnston-do you remember Johnston, who shared that chateau at Toulouse with you, and Harry, and Jack Molloy?’

‘Yes, yes, indeed! Not dead?’ she cried.

‘Killed instantly. Eeles too. I had been searching for his grave when I came upon you just now.’

Her tears fell fast. ‘He came to see us in Ghent, with Johnny! Johnny was teasing him, and he laughed, and was so gay! Oh, Charlie, who else? Let me know quickly!’ ‘I can’t tell for certain yet. I’ve just seen Beckwith, and poor George. Beckwith has had his leg off, and George is so bad I don’t know whether he will live. He has been shot through the liver, and is in the greatest agony. Barnard was wounded, and carried off; then Cameron. The command of the battalion fell upon Jonathan Leach, but I know he was carried off, for I saw him. Jack Molloy was hit, but not badly, I think. I don’t know what their losses were in the 2nd and 3rd battalions, though I heard someone say John Ross had had to leave the field. Juana, do you recall how we used to say after our Peninsular battles: “Well, who’s been killed?” This time, we said: “Who’s alive?” It-do you know, after the hell we had gone through, it did not seem possible that anyone could still be alive, and unhurt?’ She could not speak. They rode on in silence for some time, and when next Gore opened his lips, it was to ask her, in a more cheerful tone, what had become of her during the battle. They did not reach Mons until midnight. Juana had been in the saddle ever since three o’clock, and had ridden a distance from point to point of sixty miles. She was so exhausted that she fell asleep over the supper she ate in the bivouac. She did not so much as stir when Gore wrapped a blanket round her, but lay as though dead, until the daylight woke her. As soon as she had eaten a hurried breakfast, she was in the saddle again. It was not far to Bavay from Mons; she and West reached it a few hours later. She saw Sir John Lambert almost at once. He exclaimed at her, horrified to think of her having conic all the way from Ghent, attended only by her groom. She said only one word: ‘Enrique?’ ‘Yes, yes, my dear, he’s here, safe enough!’ Lambert said. I’ll take you to him at once.’ She tried to smile. ‘I know he is well. I know he is, for Charlie Gore told me so, upon his honour, but still I cannot believe in my heart that I shall find him. Isn’t-isn’t it silly?’ He patted her hand. ‘Poor little soul! There, never fear! Whom do you suppose that is, standing over there with his back to us?’