The castle was the property of Castelermo’s uncle, the Cardinal Ruffo, Prince of the ancient house of RufFo Sciglio, and a man of political and military celebrity: it was his principal residence, until ruined and dismantled on his defection; but the skill of French engineers had restored it to more than its former strength and glory. On the south side lay the snug little town, terminated by the castle rock; the cliff descending sheer down to the sea, which rolls two hundred feet below. An ample tri-colour waved heavily over the dark grey keep; and the glittering arms of the sentinels flashed in the setting sun, over the ramparts and embrasures, through which protruded the muzzles of heavy cannon: their fire, during the siege, had scared away all the inhabitants of the town below. Evening deepened around, as we advanced; and we soon saw the light in the Pharo di Messina shed its tremulous rays across the rushing and now dark waters of the Strait. The garrison of the French marquis was completely invested, on the land side, by the brigade of my countryman, Colonel (latterly Lieutenant-General Sir John) Oswald; who, at the head of the 20th and 58th Regiments, with five companies of De Watteville’s corps, and two four-pound field-pieces, had marched to this part of Lower Calabria, immediately after our victory at Maida. Two days after the battle, he captured the town and castle of Monteleone, took three hundred Frenchmen prisoners, seized all the depot there, and, pushing on by forced marches, laid siege to Scylla; which, at the time of my arrival, had been closely blockaded for nearly twenty days. The twilight of eve had given place to the more sombre shadow of night, when we entered the town; but no chant of vespers arose from the ruined chapels of its deserted convents: soldiers alone crowded its streets and terraces; where the shattered houses, roofless and desolate, and strewn with broken furniture, exploded shells, splinters, and cannon-shot, gave evidence of the daily work of strife. The quarters of the general were in an old mansion, the gloomy and antique aspect of which, with its vicinity to a church, declared it to have been once the residence of an ecclesiastic of rank. The jagged archivolts, twisted columns, and grotesque decorations, all displayed the peculiar taste of the Saraceno-Norman architect, who raised the massive walls of the building; which Sir John found a very comfortable shelter from the shot of the enemy’s batteries. Leaving our horses with the quarter guard, who occupied the lower part of the building, we were ushered up a narrow wheel-staircase to a vaulted room, where we found Sir John and Colonel Oswald seated by a black oak-table, studying a plan of Scylla; which divided their attention with an imposing jar of wine and a case of cigars. "Welcome, Dundas," they exclaimed. "Good news, I hope? Crotona—" "Surrendered on last Wednesday evening." "Glorious fellow, Macleod!"