, and midway in a
fortnight of exquisite weather, during which Wellington and Marmont
faced each other across the Douro before opening the beautiful series of
evolutions--or, rather, of circumvolutions--which ended suddenly on the
22nd, and locked the two armies in the prettiest pitched battle I have
lived to see.

For the moment neither General desired a battle. Marmont, thrust back
from Salamanca, had found a strong position where he could safely wait
for reinforcements, and had indeed already collected near upon forty
thousand of all arms, when, on the 8th, Bonnet marched into camp from
Asturias with another six thousand infantry. He had sent, too, to
borrow some divisions from Caffarelli's Army of the North. But these he
expected in vain: for Bonnet's withdrawal from Asturias had laid bare
the whole line of French communication, and so frightened Caffarelli for
the safety of his own districts that he at once recalled the twelve
thousand men he was moving down to the Douro, and in the end sent but a
handful of cavalry, and that grudgingly.

All this I had the honour to predict to Lord Wellington just twelve
hours before Bonnet's arrival on the scene. I staked my reputation that
Caffarelli (on whom I had been watching and waiting for a month past)
would not move. And Lord Wellington on the spot granted me the few
days' rest I deserved--not so much in joy of the news (which,
nevertheless, was gratifying) as because for the moment he had no work
for me. The knot was tied. He could not attack except at great
disadvantage, for the fords were deep, and Marmont held the one bridge
at Tordesillas. His business was to hold on, covering Salamanca and the
road back to Portugal, and await Marmont's first move.

The French front stretched as a chord across an arc of the river, which
here takes a long sweep to the south; and the British faced it around
this arc, with their left, centre, and right, upon three tributary
streams--the Guarena, Trabancos, and Zapardiel--over which last, and
just before it joins the Douro, towers the rock of Rueda, crowned with a
ruinated castle.

Upon this rock--for my quarters lay in face of it, on the opposite bank
of the stream--I had been gazing for the best part of an idle afternoon.
I was comfortable; my _cigarritos_ lay within reach; my tent gave shade
enough; and through the flapway I found myself watching a mighty pretty
comedy, with the rock of Rueda for its back-scene.

A more