their kind offer, should the peril become more urgent; but I resolved
to remain another day in our villa. Towards five the following
morning, I was roused from the sofa on which I had thrown myself, by
the trampling of horses, and the cries of the people of the suburbs. I
flew to the window and beheld a troop of Belgians in full flight,
covered, not with glory, but with dust, galloping towards the town! I
heard the gates close against them, and saw them scamper over the
plain towards Lacken. The mob increased; their shrieks of terror rent
the air,--"Les François sont ici! Ils s'emparent de la porte de la
ville!" mingled with the cries of the women, and with those of my
little household, who all rushed into my chamber, expecting me to save
them. In the midst of this terror, I heard the well-known voice of the
commander of the town, Colonel Jones, vociferating with all the energy
and passion of a Welchman. In my distraction, I ran out to him; he
_stormed_, and explained in no gentle terms, that it was a false
alarm, caused by the _sudden nervous affection_ of the troop of
Belgians I had seen in flight. He commanded me to quit my house, and
kindly sent me a carriage to secure my entrance into the town. We were
cheered in the hurry of quitting our rural abode, by the arrival of
some thousands of British troops; many of the poor fellows, heated and
languid, entered asking for water to quench their thirst. From them I
learnt that they had returned to England from America, and, without
being permitted to land, were immediately ordered to Ostend. I felt
what might be their influence on the fate of that day, and selfishly
partook of their impatience to arrive on the field of battle. The
whole of Saturday we believed the battle lost; and _there are those_
who think that it _was, but_ for the mysterious conduct of Grouchy, or
the treason of the estafettes sent to summon him to advance.

The English families continued to fly towards Ostend: the roads and