'Who are you?' I demanded. 'I am
Cabrera,' he replied; 'and I am Flinter,' I retorted, flourishing
my sabre; 'retire to your battalions or you will forthwith die the
death.' He was awed and did as I commanded. In an hour we
surrendered. I was led a prisoner to the Basque provinces; and the
Carlists rejoiced in the capture they had made, for the name of
Flinter had long sounded amongst the Carlist ranks. I was flung
into a loathsome dungeon, where I remained twenty months. I was
cold; I was naked; but I did not on that account despond, my spirit
was too indomitable for such weakness. My keeper at last pitied my
misfortunes. He said that 'it grieved him to see so valiant a man
perish in inglorious confinement.' We laid a plan to escape
together; disguises were provided, and we made the attempt. We
passed unobserved till we arrived at the Carlist lines above
Bilbao; there we were stopped. My presence of mind, however, did
not desert me. I was disguised as a carman, as a Catalan, and the
coolness of my answers deceived my interrogators. We were
permitted to pass, and soon were safe within the walls of Bilbao.
There was an illumination that night in the town, for the lion had
burst his toils, Flinter had escaped, and was once more returned to
re-animate a drooping cause.
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