Such was the edifice constructed by Governor Simcoe for the occasional residence of himself and his family. He called it Castle Frank, after his little son, previously mentioned; a lad about five years of age at; this time. The cleared space contiguous to the building was circumscribed within rather narrow limits. A few yards from the walls on each side a precipitous ravine descended. Through one of these ravines flows the Don Elver; while through the other a little murmuring brook meanders on until its confluence with the larger stream several hundreds yards farther down. In addition to a numerous retinue of servants, the household consisted of the Governor, his wife, Master Frank, and the infant daughter already mentioned. Dr. Scadding draws a pleasant picture of the spirited little lad clambering up and down the steep hill-sides with the restless energy of boyhood. He was destined to climb other hill-sides before his life-work was over, and to take part in more hazardous performances than, when scampering with his nurse along the rural banks of the Don. Seventeen years passed, and the bright-eyed boy had become a man. True to the traditions of his house, he had entered the army, and borne himself gallantly on many a well-contested field in the Spanish Peninsula. He eagerly pursued the path of glory which, as poet tells us, leads but to the grave. The dictum as applied to him, proved to be true enough. The night of the 6th of October, 1812, found him "full of lusty life," hopeful, and burning for distinction, before the besieged outworks of Badajoz. During the darkness of night the siege was renewed with a terrific vigour that was not to be resisted, and the "unconsidered voluntaries" of Estramadura tasted the sharpness of English steel. The town was taken--but at what a cost! If any one wishes to know more of that fearful carnage let him read the description of it in the pages of Colonel Napier, and he will acquiesce in the chronicler's assertion that, "No age, no nation ever sent braver troops to battle than those that stormed Badajoz." The morning of the 7th rose upon a sight which might well haunt the dreams of all who beheld it. In the breach where the ninety-fifth perished almost to a man was a ghastly array, largely consisted of the mangled corpses of young English officers whose dauntless intrepidity had impelled them to such deeds of valour as have made their names a sacred inheritance to their respective families. Many of them were mere boys "With ladies' faces and fierce dragons' spleens" upon whose cheeks the down of early manhood had scarce begun to appear. Among the many remnants of mortality taken from that terrible breach was the pallid corpse of young Frank Simcoe.