'Count Pappenheim, with a thousand Walloon horsemen, all peasants, raised in the province of Luxembourg, is in the village of Lutzelstein; and I am ordered to take a sufficient body of cavalry, and, if possible, cut him off. Attended by a troop of German and Spanish courtezans, clad in the spoil of plundered provinces, they have been making merry there for a week past.' 'And the Count de Bitche?' 'Is with him. This fellow who, as Shakespeare says of Talbot, '------ is so much feared abroad, That with his name the mothers still their babes,' has now a fair chance of ending his life under the same trees which saw his abduction of the Countess of Lutzelstein.' 'And when do we march?' 'To-night.' 'Excellent!' 'Our cuirassiers lead the way; the dragoons of Brissac, under the Marquis de Toneins, who has just joined from Paris, are to follow.' 'Bravo!' I exclaimed, as a fiery joy swelled up in my heart. 'At daybreak, we will be upon them; and then let the Austrian and Lorrainer look well to sword and harness, for the Garde du Corps Ecossais never ride forth on a bootless errand!' After supping with Home, Dundrennan, and a few others, on an omelette, with pickled herrings and saur-kraut, dressed with hog's-lard, a horrible repast, prepared by my German landlady, and washed down by a few bottles of Rhenish wine, we marched on our expedition, leaving Zaberne about midnight. De Brissac's dragoons--still so called because they had been raised by the marechal of that name in 1600--with our troop of guardsmen, made up about nine hundred swords. The former were led by the Marquis de Toneins, formerly camp-master of the regiment de Normandie, who had succeeded the Duc de Bellegarde, slain before Phalsbourg; and the Marquis of Gordon commanded the whole. We left the town at an easy pace, in light marching order, _i.e._, unencumbered by forage, oats, or valises, but otherwise fully accoutred with all our arms. The night was unusually serene; the month was August; and, as I looked back at Zaberne, I felt somewhat influenced by the beauty of the scenery and the silence of the hour. Around the city, the Sarre wound between woods of chestnut, and over it, on a lofty rock, stood a castle of the Bishops of Strasbourg, in the deep arched windows of which, red lights that twinkled, showed where Cardinal de Lavalette still held revel with some of his officers; for that old fortress was his head-quarters.