ould take him some six miles south of Zamora, and the
distance to be ridden was between fifty and sixty miles. He knew
that he could not do this at a gallop, and went along at a steady
pace, sometimes trotting and sometimes cantering. It was now late
in September and, at half-past five, it was still dark when Ryan
approached the spot where the road he was following crossed the
main road between Zamora and Salamanca.

He was riding at a canter, when suddenly, to his surprise and
consternation, he rode into the midst of a body of cavalry, halted
on the main road. The sound of his horse's feet had been heard and,
before he could even draw his sword, he was seized and taken
prisoner. A French officer rode down the line.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"We have taken a prisoner, sir," the sergeant answered. "We heard
him coming by this crossroad, and seized him as he rode in among
us. He is a soldier--an officer, I should think, from what I can
see of him."

"Who are you, sir?" the French officer said to Ryan.

The latter saw that concealment was useless. It would soon be light
enough for his scarlet uniform to be seen. He therefore replied, in
broken French:

"My name is Ryan. I hold the rank of captain. I was riding to
Miranda when, unfortunately, I fell in with your troopers as they
were halted. I did not hear and, of course, could not see them
until I was among them."

[Illustration: 'Search him at once.']

"Riding with despatches, no doubt," the officer said. "Search him
at once, men. He might destroy them."

"Here they are, sir," Ryan said, taking the despatches from inside
his jacket. "You need not have me searched. I give you my word of
honour, as a British officer, that I have no others on me."

"Put him in the middle of the troop, sergeant," the officer said.
"Put a trooper in special charge of him, on each side. Unbuckle his
reins, and buckle them on to those of the troopers. Do you ride
behind him, and keep a sharp lookout upon him. It is an important
capture."

Five minutes later, the squadron again started on their way south.
Ryan, after silently cursing his bad luck at having arrived at the
spot just as this body of cavalry were crossing, wondered what evil
fortune had sent them there, at that precise moment. He was not
long in arriving at a conclusion. The convoy of the French wounded
had arrived at Zamora, late in the evening; and the commandant,
thinking it likely that the enemy, who had h