Lastly, I began to feel lonely in the new separation from the frank military spirits of the Guard, with whom, as brother Scotsmen (that endearing term) I had spent so many happy days, and with whom I had so many kindly associations and sympathies in common. I recalled those gallant men, whose manly forms were now mouldering in a soldier's grave--Sir Quentin Home of Ravendean, Raynold Cheyne of Dundargle, Sir Archibald of Heriotmuir, and Bruce of Blairhall, and pondered sadly on who might next be missing from the ranks, when again I saw the Garde du Corps: and so, full of thought, I rode on, increasing by every step the distance between my countrymen and me. With no sound near but the monotonous tramp of my French escort, we advanced towards the mountains of the Vosges, the darkness deepening, and the night casting its shadows over us. The distance we had to ride, was, if I remember, only about twelve leagues; but we were all ignorant of the country, and by unnecessary detours, added to our journey. We soon passed through Andiau, a little town upon the margin of a stream which is so named, and which rolls from the Vosges laden with the spoil of the forest. The ancient castle of the Barons of Andiau, who held the town as a fief from the abbess of a convent there, was, like the convent itself, garrisoned by a portion of our troops; though this pious establishment was founded only for dames who could show their sixteen quarters of nobility, their abbess having the title of princess of the empire, with a seat among the Rhenish prelates, old Sir Andrew Gray of Broxmouth, colonel of Swedish infantry, had now quartered himself and his staff among them, and, seated in the chair of the reverend mother, drank her wine, collected her rents, and made himself quite at home. A ten miles' ride took us through Bar, in a district clothed with vineyards, and literally flowing with milk and honey; and next we came to Maltzheim, a town of the Bishops of Strasbourg, at the foot of the Vosges, ruined in after years by the Imperialists. Spurring on silently and rapidly, by the pale, chill light of the waning moon, I saw the tall grim tower of Phalsbourg, with all its memories so exciting to me, rising on its rock; but like other strong places, it was now garrisoned by the soldiers of Louis XIII. I could see the turret wherein I had that deadly struggle with De Bitche; I could see the arched gate, from which, with a desperate heart, I issued with the Austrian sortie; the place where I had concealed myself and where the arquebussiers fired over me; the dreadful spot where Schreckhorn bound me to the petard, and the cliff over which, in despair, I had flung myself into the river. At all these places I gave a dark and furious glance, and turning my back on them, urged my escort on, and dashed into a steep and dark defile, which led direct to the castle of the Counts Palatine of Lutzelstein.