I saluted him respectfully, and prepared to obey his orders. Already I foresaw the downfall of all the hopes I had been cherishing, and anticipated the life of tyranny and oppression that lay before me. It was clear to me, that my discharge had been obtained solely as a means of punishing me, and that Captain Discau, as the officer was called, had destined me to a pleasant expiation of my note-book. The savage exultation with which he watched me, as I made up my kit and saddled my horse—the cool malice with which he handed me back the accursed journal, the cause of all my disasters—gave me a dark foreboding of what was to follow; and as I mounted my saddle, my woeful face, and miserable look, brought forth a perfect shout of laughter from the bystanders. Captain Discau’s duty was to visit the banks of the Rhine, and the Eslar island, to take certain measurements of distances, and obtain accurate information on various minute points respecting the late engagement, for, while a brief announcement of the victory would suffice for the bulletin, a detailed narrative of the event, in all its bearings, must be drawn up for the minister of war, and for this latter purpose various staff-officers were then employed in different parts of the field. As we issued from the fortress, and took our way over the plain, we struck out into a sharp gallop; but, as we drew near the river, our passage became so obstructed by lines of baggage-wagons, tumbrils, and ammunition-carts, that we were obliged to dismount and proceed on foot; and now I was to see, for the first time, that dreadful picture, which, on the day after a battle, forms the reverse of the great medal of glory. Huge litters of wounded men on their way back to Strasbourg, were drawn by six or eight horses, their jolting motion increasing the agony of sufferings that found their vent in terrific cries and screams; oaths, yells, and blasphemies, the ravings of madness, and the wild shouts of infuriated suffering, filled the air on every side. As if to give the force of contrast to this uproar of misery, two regiments of Swabian infantry marched past as prisoners. Silent, crest-fallen, and wretched-looking, they never raised their eyes from the ground, but moved, or halted, wheeled, or stood at ease, as though by some impulse of mechanism; a cord coupled the wrists of the outer files, one with another, which struck me less as a measure of security against escape, than as a mark of indignity. Carts and charettes with wounded officers, in which often-times the uniform of the enemy appeared side by side with our own, followed in long procession; and thus were these two great currents—the one hurrying forward, ardent, high-hearted, and enthusiastic; the other returning maimed, shattered, and dying!