om his regiment, which was stationed at
Abrantes, and formed part of the division under Sir Rowland Hill, the
major happened into a company that contained at least one member who was
hostile to Lord Wellington's conduct of the campaign, or rather to
the measures which it entailed. As in the case of the Principal Souza,
prejudice drove him to take up any weapon that came to his hand by means
of which he could strike a blow at a system he deplored.

Since we are concerned only indirectly with the affair, it may be stated
very briefly. The young gentleman in question was a Portuguese officer
and a nephew of the Patriarch of Lisbon, and the particular criticism
to which Major Berkeley took such just exception concerned the very
troublesome Dick Butler. Our patrician ventured to comment with sneers
and innuendoes upon the fact that the lieutenant of dragoons continued
missing, and he went so far as to indulge in a sarcastic prophecy that
he never would be found.

Major Berkeley, stung by the slur thus slyly cast upon British honour,
invited the young gentleman to make himself more explicit.

"I had thought that I was explicit enough," says young impudence,
leering at the stalwart red-coat. "But if you want it more clearly
still, then I mean that the undertaking to punish this ravisher of
nunneries is one that you English have never intended to carry out. To
save your faces you will take good care that Lieutenant Butler is never
found. Indeed I doubt if he was ever really missing."

Major Berkeley was quite uncompromising and downright. I am afraid he
had none of the graces that can exalt one of these affairs.

"Ye're just a very foolish liar, sir, and you deserve a good caning," was
all he said, but the way in which he took his cane from under his arm
was so suggestive of more to follow there and then that several of the
company laid preventive hands upon him instantly.

The Patriarch's nephew, very white and very fierce to hear himself
addressed in terms which--out of respect for his august and powerful
uncle--had never been used to him before, demanded instant satisfaction.
He got it next morning in the shape of half-an-ounce of lead through his
foolish brain, and a terrible uproar ensued. To appease it a scapegoat
was necessary. As Samoval so truly said, the mob is a ferocious god to
whom sacrifices must be made. In this instance the sacrifice, of course,
was Major Berkeley. He was broken and sent home to cut his pig