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Viva Carlos quinto! Muerte a la Regna!

Here, amongst the trees, a Carlist skirmisher cooly pinking off with his carbine, any unlucky Christino who came within range, or another might be seen stripping a fallen trooper, cries of Quartel, quartel, por Dios! from some wounded wretch, the words most probably thrust down his throat by a lance blade, all the quarter he had to expect: or here, another thrown from his horse, curling up his body to receive the coup de grâce of some butchering lance.

At length might be seen Grenadiers riding bleeding and minus their bearskins, out of the melée pursued by Factions; and troops of yellow jacketed heavies flying from the fight, the Carlists shouting in triumph. Our four Squadrons ‘though they fought well, when once in “the thick of it” were evidently overmatched and had to contend with more than double their own numbers.

Leon seeing this, and fearing that a panic