"Trot!" the sergeant commanded, and soon that trot became a gallop.
A shower of stones followed them as they thundered out of Tavora,
and the sergeant himself had a lump as large as a duck-egg on the
middle of his head when next day he reported himself at Pesqueira
to Cornet O'Rourke, whom he overtook there.
When eventually Sir Robert Craufurd heard the story of the affair,
he was as angry as only Sir Robert could be. To have lost four
dragoons and to have set a match to a train that might end in a
conflagration was reason and to spare.
"How came such a mistake to be made?" he inquired, a scowl upon his
full red countenance.
Mr. O'Rourke had been investigating and was primed with knowledge.
"It appears, sir, that at Tavora there is a convent of Dominican
nuns as well as a monastery of Dominican friars. Mr. Butler will
have used the word 'convento,' which more particularly applies to
the nunnery, and so he was directed to the wrong house."
"And you say the sergeant has reason to believe that Mr. Butler did
not survive his folly?"
"I am afraid there can be no hope, sir."
"It's perhaps just as well," said Sir Robert. "For Lord Wellington
would certainly have had him shot."
And there you have the true account of the stupid affair of Tavora,
which was to produce, as we shall see, such far-reaching effects upon
persons nowise concerned in it.
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