No one will question the justice of this remark; but some praise is also due to the pipers, who were as jealous of the honour of the regiment as Cameron himself. His last hours were soothed by the music he loved so well. He was present on the evening of the 15th of June, at the celebrated ball given by the Duchess of Richmond, and was requested by the Duke of Wellington to withdraw privately from the room, and to march with all speed to Quatre Bras. He lost no time in executing this order; animated by the martial strains of the Cameron’s Gathering, the 92nd were in front of the enemy by 2 P.M. Deserted by the Belgian horse, and assailed by fearful odds led on by the fiery Ney, the Highlanders and the Black Brunswickers repelled the attacks of the enemy again and again; many gallant officers and about three hundred privates were struck down, but they never dreamed of retiring. At length Cameron asked permission of the Duke, who was stationed among them, to charge the enemy. “Have patience,” said the Duke, “and you will have plenty of work by-and-by.” The French advanced, and took possession of the farm-house; the Duke waited till they began to push on to the Charleroi road, when, turning to the Colonel, he exclaimed, “Now, Cameron, is your time—take care of that road.” On hearing these words, the 92nd cleared the ditch at a bound, rushed upon the enemy, and drove them back; but, in the moment of victory, a shot fired from the upper story of the farm-house, passed through the body of their gallant leader, and his horse, pierced by several bullets, sunk to the earth. A wild wail of sorrow rose from his devoted followers, as they rushed madly on the house to avenge the death of one whom they loved as a father. Ewen Macmillan, his faithful foster-brother, aided by another private, bore him beyond the reach of the enemy’s fire, to a deserted house near the village of Waterloo, where they stretched him on the floor. His first inquiry was for his beloved Highlanders; on hearing that they had fought with their usual gallantry and success, he said: “I die happy, and I trust my dear country will believe that I have served her faithfully.” None ever served her better, or shed his blood more willingly in her defence. His remains were hastily interred in the _Allé Nerte_, on the Ghent road. Next year they were conveyed in a man-of-war to Scotland, and buried in the aisle of the old church of Kilmallie, in Lochaber, where so many of his forefathers sleep. No less than three thousand Highlanders accompanied the funeral cortége, and the wailing notes of the coronach were echoed back from the heath-clad mountains, as they conveyed him to his last home. A monument was erected to his memory; the inscription was written by Sir Walter Scott, who tells us in his “Field of Waterloo” how “Cameron in the shock of steel, Died like the offspring of Lochiel;” and thus alludes to him in his “Dance of Death”—