CHANGING SCENES. 167 father-cruel from that sinister consecration of him by the icy-gold hands of the Gorgeous Mammon-fell, at his speedy death, into blessed human hands; which knew well and virtuously how to make use of the trash afterwards. And the wild stories which, in the farther invisible transit and circulation of the Coin, and the accounts that in the fulfilment of its baleful purpose intervene between the preceding instance of the Coin's power and the next succeeding episode of its terrible devil-life are blank as regards illustration in this history just at this period. But in comparison to intervals which will occur (hereafter) in the story of this enchanted piece of money, the lapse between this present period and the scene of the events upon which the curtain next rises is inconsiderable. Separated (alone) by a generation, it is still contemporaneous in the memory of many; recollected also in the public events recorded, or referred to, in the preceding parts of our magic memoir. We pass back to a pre-appearance of the condemned Piece of Silver in the course of the Peninsular War, maintained by England against France. THE TWENTY-THIRD DRAGOONS. TIME-1809. A FEW days previous to the great and decisive were seen cautiously descending a steep mountain-slope, down the sides of which, and seen and lost occasionally amidst its acres of olives, was a horsepath; rugged, however, with the stones tracing out its serpentining course, and in places overhung with rocks, which, with the foliage, formed luxuriant arches blooming with innumerable many-coloured wild flowers. The sun was brightness itself in the hot sky, and he poured, every now and then, down a flood of golden glory. But there were great clouds sweeping across the intense blue, occasionally, which at times spread a purple belt or barrier before the sun's beams, and gloomed the lands and plantations lying, at great depth below the cavalry-detachment, which now and then glittered at points of its line. "A bad path and rocky," said one of the soldiers to a comrade with light moustaches and a florid face, but with a good-natured expression as he looked from one side to the other. "You may say that, Tom," returned the trooper. And hot, too, as Africa," he continued, as he removed his cap and passed his white-gauntleted hand across his brows, as if he suffered great inconvenience. "Something different, this mountain goat-track, to a THE "HOME" IN "OLD ENGLAND." 169 fine road in Lancashire, now, with the mail-coach bowling along with the horn blowing; like a billiard-ball of a coach." 66 Ah, poor Lancashire! and Old England!" sighed Harry Wilson, the first speaker. ""Twill be many a long day before we see either of them, Tom, my friend." "We must first clear the roads in front of us of these Frenchmen, Harry. Before we clap sabre in scabbard and think of home, time will be long and weary." "And who did you 'leave behind you,' Tom? And who do you expect to 'return safe home to,' as the old song says?" observed Harry Wilson, in a rough but an affectedly gay tone. There was some mournfulness to be caught as he dropped his last word with a faltering and sad long intonation. And he was leaning back and slightly bending over towards Tom in an involuntary attitude, as it were, of sympathy; and of a sudden and sentimental warming of a good affectionate heart towards him. "No-girl, if that be your meaning, Harry. Though I dare say you have a girl 'left behind you,' and you are thinking of her. I have left my old mother behind me, and she has nobody to think of or care for her— God bless her except me. For my father is dead; and all of my family, except she and me, are dead." Quiet, men!-no talking," broke in the short, stern voice of an officer; as he caught the murmur of the soldiers' conversation at a distance. At this moment Captain Temple came sweeping by at a hand-gallop, with his accoutrements clattering. "Forward, Sergeant Draper," he called out to a fine, tall, sturdy, large-chested non-commissioned officer. "Forward, Sergeant Draper, with five of your men, at as quick a pace as you can manage down this steep slope, and feel our way well in front there, towards yonder village, where I fancy there may be an outpost." He pointed, as he spoke, to a village a long way below in the valley, upon which the sun broke at the moment, brightly illuminating its group of white houses and its large white Convent amidst the trees; and displaying many flags and streamers, and evident signs of festivity going on. "What is going forward there, I wonder?" said He pointed as ne spoke to a village a long way below in the valley. Thomas Desborough, in a low voice, to his comrade Harry. "Don't you hear some faint sounds of music ?" "Some fête, or saint's day, or fair. They are always at something or other of their tomfoolery. Hark! that does not sound much like jollity or fun, though," GUITARS AND GITANOS. 171 Harry added, as the low boom of a cannon came sullenly, faintly rumbling; and then the distant report went rolling and distributing away as it were in many echoes amidst the tops, and in the hollows, of the mountains round about. “A distant gun among the hills," said Tom. means battle. "That We shall have it to-morrow morning, or I'm a Dutchman." "Press forward, Sergeant Draper," called Captain Temple. "Direct your eyes well about you to see what that gun means. There is combat somewhere, and enemy's patrols must be about us." Then there All remained now quiet for some time. were two or three very remote cannon-shots; which seemed carried overhead in the air to a distance in the rear. It was sundown before Captain Temple's advanced squadron of Dragoons (in Captain Temple's own particular troop, of which both Harry Wilson and Thomas Desborough were privates) reached the village which they had descried from the top of the hill, far below them, hours before, with its flags and festal decoration. It was found in a state of gay bustle and of disturbance-almost of tumult-from some country fair or celebration. Whether the jollity of a fair, or of a saint's day, was the rule of the day it was not at first easy to determine. The villagers, in their holiday dresses, were in the streets. There was the cura, and a troop of black-gowned ecclesiastics-now, however, with flowers stuck in their flapped hats and cassocks-enjoying themselves heartily, and making merry with the people. There was all the variety of Spanish dances at every turn. Guitars tinkled, even clattered, with resonant or with loose strings, and castanets chirped and chattered. Music formed the centre of various groups of countrypeople, all determined, apparently, to make the most of their day of pleasure. Indeed the now well-ascertained nearness of a very large body of French soldiers did not seem to disturb these-for the time-light-hearted, rustic Spaniards. As the British cavalry trooped clattering into the |