who commanded our brigade, and countersigned by Colonel Balvaird, our head colonel, Sir Andrew Barnard being at the time Commandant of Cambray. I saw all remonstrance was vain, and there was no alternative; so accompanying her myself, she was obliged with a heavy heart to retrace her steps. Her reception by her father was most unkind; he confined her in a room, the windows of which were darkened and secured by crossbars of iron, the handiwork of the village smith, whose services were called in requisition upon the occasion. In this gloomy prison she was not permitted to see her sisters; her meals were sent her at long intervals, and scantily supplied; a priest was sent for, who was paid handsomely for trying to wean her affections from me; but the bars of iron, and the prayers of the priest, were alike in vain. She contrived on the first opportunity to escape from this durance vile to me, as we had been clandestinely married at her first elopement by an excommunicated priest; for I must here mention, the Duke of Wellington had given positive orders that no British soldiers should be allowed to marry French women. Immediately on her return we went together to our colonel, who lived at the château of the village, to request she might be allowed to remain with me. On entering the room, she threw herself in an impassioned manner on her knees, and begged we might not be separated. The Colonel, taking her by the hand, raised her from her humiliating posture, saying it was not in his power to grant the request, but he would speak to General Lambert on the matter, which he did, and she was allowed to remain with me. We now fancied ourselves in a great measure protected, but she was again pursued by her father, who one day very unceremoniously rushed into our cottage, and desired she would return with him. She instantly flew to me for protection, throwing her arms around me, exclaiming, “Mon Edouard, je ne te quitterai jamais.” Her father, as if seized with a sudden fit of phrenzy, laid hold of a hammer that was on the table, and struck himself a blow on the forehead with such force that he fell, and remained some time on the floor insensible. The distress of Poor Augustine cannot be imagined, for it was some time ere she recovered, but after this we remained unmolested, and lived happily together.