Massena! O, how little I had to hope for, if once in the clutches of that savage and apostate Italian: particularly when blackened by all that Regnier’s malicious nature might dictate. In half an hour I was on the march for Castello di Bivona, escorted by a corporal and file of the 101st, with fixed bayonets. As a deeper degradation, Regnier had ordered me to be hand-cuffed. Heavens! my blood boils yet at the recollection of that! I would have resisted; but a musket levelled at my head silenced all remonstrance, and I bottled up my wrath while Corporal Crapaud locked the fetters on me. We marched off, my exasperation increasing as we proceeded; for the escort seemed determined to consider me in the character of a spy, and consequently treated me with insult and neglect: in vain I told them I was a British officer, and deserved other treatment. "True, monsieur," replied the corporal, who was a dapper little Gaul, four feet six inches high, "but I am obeying only the orders of the general; and a British officer, or any other officer, who is caught among an enemy’s cantonments in disguise, must be considered as a spy, and expect degradation as such. Monsieur will excuse us—we have orders not to converse with prisoners; and the general—ah! ventre bleu!—he is a man of iron!" This coolness, or affectation of contempt or superiority, only increased my annoyance. Although the soldiers conversed with all the loquacity and sung with all the gaiety of Frenchmen, they addressed me no more during the march of more than twenty-five miles. This lasted seven hours, exclusive of halts at Gioja, Rossarno, and several half-deserted villages and shepherds’ huts; where they extorted whatever they wanted, at point of the bayonet, and made good their quarters whenever they chose; browbeating the men and caressing the women (if pretty). I often expected a brawl, and perhaps a release; but all hope died away, when, about sunset, we entered Castello di Bivona: my spirit fell in proportion as the plains and snow-capped Apennines grew dark, when the red sun dipped into the Tyrhene sea. There were no French troops in the town; but anchored close to the shore lay the French gun-boat _La Vigilante_, mounting a six and a fourteen pounder, and having thirty-six men—quite sufficient to hold in terror the inhabitants of the little town, who had not forgotten the visit paid them by Regnier’s rear-guard. My heart sickened when, from an eminence, I beheld _La Vigilante_, which was to bear me further from liberty and hope; and the most acute anguish took possession of me, when confined for the night and left to my own sad meditations. I understood that I was to be transmitted to the Upper Province with some other prisoners, who were to arrive from Monteleone in the morning, and be conveyed across the gulf of St. Eufemio by the gun-boat.