Mine was a desolate hearth. In respect to my uncle's last wishes, I sold
out of the army and settled down to a quieter life than the clang of
battle, the ardour of the march. Gradually new impressions and new
duties succeeded; and, ere four months elapsed, the quiet monotony of my
daily life healed up the wounds of my suffering, and a sense of content,
if not of happiness, crept gently over me, and I ceased to long for the
clash of arms and the loud blast of the trumpet.

But three years later a regiment of infantry marching to Cork for
embarkation for the Continent after Bonaparte's return from Elba, roused
all the eagerness of my old desires, and I volunteered for service
again.

A few days after I was in Brussels, and attending that most memorable
and most exciting entertainment, the Duchess of Richmond's ball, on the
night of June 15, 1815. Lucy Dashwood was there, beautiful beyond
anything I had ever seen her. When the word came of the advance of
Napoleon I was sent off with the major-general's orders, and then joined
the night march to Quatre Bras. There I fell into the hands of a French
troop and missed the fighting, though I saw Napoleon himself, and had
the good fortune to effect the escape of Sir George Dashwood, who lay a
prisoner under sentence of death in the same place as myself. Early in
the day of Waterloo I contrived my own escape, and was able to give Lord
Wellington much information as to the French movements.

After the battle I wandered back into Brussels and learned that we had
gained the day. As I came into the city Sir George met me and took me
into his hotel, where were Power and the senhora, about to be married.
Wounded by the innocent raillery of my friends, I escaped into an empty