blew in gusts of such force, that the soldiery were compelled to cling to the rocks and pines. The moonlight was extinguished at once, and the thunder began to roll like the cannon of a distant battle.

Still they pursued their march in utter darkness, and bewildered among the intricacies of the valley, or lighted only by the sulphureous bursts that sprang and quivered along the ridges above, or covered in a blue and crackling sheet of fire the columns, and then relapsed in an instant into darkness inconceivable.

The rain began to pour in torrents, the ground was deluged, and a glance at the mountain by one of the flashes, shewed it white, with sudden cataracts rushing down after them. To take shelter was impossible, to advance became at

every step more hazardous; all points of direction had been lost: it was at last resolved to halt upon the spot till morning. The lightning had ceased, and tenfold darkness covered earth and sky, when one broad burst, that seemed like a conflagration of the general atmosphere, broke from the depth of the clouds, and showed the whole horizon. They were already at the foot of the hill on which the French had encamped for the night: the entire position was displayed before them, the guns commanding the entrance of the village, the picquets at the foot of the ascent, the cavalry videttes on the neighbouring heights. But all was silent, as if man had no business to mingle his little powers with the overwhelming grandeur and might of the war of nature.

The glare sank, and in the next moment the troops rushed on in columns,

with an inspiring huzza. The position was attacked in flank, front, and rear, at once; the enemy made a vigorous resistance, and the face of the hill was in a blaze with cannon and musquetry. The French were commanded by Giraud, a gallant soldier and a favourite of Napoleon; he had been surprised, but he strove to sustain his character.

The conflict became close and destructive; the entrance to the village had been barricadoed, the houses were looped, and a heavy fire was poured from every roof, fence, and window. But the British bayonet was irresistible. The barricadoes were rapidly stormed, amidst cheers, and the roar of mingled artillery and thunder. Vaughan felt himself buoyed up with a lofty and maddening animation; he plunged into the blaze of the musquetry without a consciousness of hazard; all was a bold, feverish,

almost joyous, tumult of sensations; a new life seemed to have been poured into his frame, and first of the first, and loudest of the loud, he flung himself into the midst of desperate encounter.

His captain had been wounded on ascending the hill; he was now in command of the company; and the thought of distinction, and of those whom he had left at home, doubly inflamed him. A French battalion had rallied, and was gradually repelling some British platoons that had ventured too far, and were now keeping up a scattered fire. As Vaughan turned into the street, he saw the platoons broken and forced to take shelter under the portico of a convent. Their officer had fallen in the centre of the way, and a French grenadier rushed from the ranks to bayonet him.Vaughan uttered a cry, sprang forwards,

and grasped the Frenchman; the soldiery on both sides ceased firing, through fear of killing either. But the conflict was brief. The musquet was broken between the strugglers, but the Frenchman drew his sabre and aimed a blow which might have extinguished Vaughan's joys and sorrows for ever. The wounded officer gave a sudden scream, as he saw it lifted up; Vaughan sprang aside, it grazed his arm, and it was returned in the Frenchman's heart. The British gave a roar of triumph, and drove the battalion before them down the street, firing and charging till its remnant threw down their arms at the last barricade.

Fatigued and bleeding, yet with a salient and elevated feeling, such as he had never till that hour experienced, Vaughan led back his prisoners through