ession to his otherwise agreeable physiognomy. A
Navarrese by birth, and of a roving and adventurous disposition, this
man, at the commencement of the civil war, had espoused the cause of Don
Carlos; but a violent quarrel with a superior officer, punished, as he
considered, with undue severity, soon induced him to transfer his
services to the Christinos. He raised a free corps, composed of Carlist
deserters, smugglers, and desperadoes of every description, and made war
upon his former friends with unbounded vindictiveness and considerable
success. At the period now referred to, he had already, by various
well-planned and boldly-achieved expeditions, accomplished chiefly in
the nighttime, gained a high reputation, and the _sobriquet_, by which
he was generally known, of El Mochuelo, or the Night Owl.

The man seated opposite to the partisan just described, was of a totally
different stamp. Several inches taller than his companion,
broad-shouldered and powerful, he had the careless weatherbeaten look of
an old campaigner, equally ready to do his devoir in the field, or to
enjoy a temporary repose in snug quarters. A bushy beard covered the
lower part of his face, which was further adorned with a purple scar
reaching completely across one cheek, the result of a sabre cut of no
very ancient date. He wore a dragoon's uniform: his right arm, which
rested on the table before him, was large and brawny, apparently well
fitted to wield the ponderous sword that hung from his hip; but his left
had been severed between wrist and elbow, and in its stead an iron hook
protruded from the empty coat-cuff. On his right shoulder a single
epaulet, with long silver bullion, marked his rank as that of lieutenant
of free corps.

"I tell you I'm sick of it, Velasquez," cried the Mochuelo, striking the
table impatiently with his fist. "Why are we idling in towns instead of
following up our late victory? When there's work to be done, do it at
once, say I. If there's no sign of a move to-morrow, I shall venture
something by myself, that I'm determined."

"Can't say I'm so impatient," returned his companion. "Fighting is very
well in its way, and I believe I take to it as kindly as most men; but a
feast after a fray, that's fair play and the soldier's privilege. But
you are never easy without your foot is in the stirrup. Give the poor
devils a day's rest; if it's only time to shake their feathers after
their last thrashing."

"Curse them!" crie