The abdication and exile of Napoleon spread the calm of peace over the face of Europe. Alas! that it should have been but as some sweet vision of the night, doomed to be dissipated by the dawn of the morrow, when the sterner realities of life, its toils and its wars, anew presented themselves. The night which had shrouded the destiny of imperial France was succeeded by a new day happily; but, as a brief winter’s day, when for a moment a glimpse of sunshine shone upon the spirit of the old empire, as it seemed to revive beneath the influence of the great Magician, who was wont to conjure up kingdoms and dynasties by the mere fiat of his will. Soon we shall find the day-dream of ambition eclipsed in a darker night. Already, we can almost read the mysterious writing, prophetically pointing to Waterloo, as more surely sealing the fate of imperial France. In 1815 the rude blast of war once more summoned the Ninety-second to the field, as the gathering hosts of France and the Allies accepted the dread arbitration of war on the chivalric field of Flanders. In this campaign the Ninety-second was brigaded with the First Royal Scots, the Forty-second Royal Highlanders, and the Forty-fourth Foot, under Major-General Sir Denis Pack, and placed in the famous fifth division of Lieut.-General Sir T. Picton. The same tide of imperial power, which rose upon the Prussians at Ligny, rolled along towards Quatre Bras, and dashed its stormy billows in foaming wrath upon the living rocks of British valour there. As the Gordon Highlanders encountered the furious onset of the corps of Marshal Ney, Wellington himself was in their midst, and beheld their splendid valour. Concealed in a ditch by the road-side, they waited the charge of the French cavalry, as it ventured to sweep past them in pursuit of the Brunswickers. Here, however, the pursuit was stayed by a fatal volley from the Highlanders. At length the Duke gave the word, as he observed the enemy pushing along the Charleroi Road, “Now, Cameron,” said he, “now is your time; you must charge these fellows, and take care of that road.” Soon the massive columns of the foe were broken and hurled back in confusion, as the Ninety-second emerged from the awful conflict a bleeding yet victorious remnant, having lost its brave commander, Lieut.-Colonel Cameron, and nearly 300 comrades. Colonel Cameron was deeply lamented by the regiment, and the whole army. Temporarily buried in the vicinity of the field of his latest glory, his remains were afterwards removed, by his family, to the churchyard of Kilmallie, where his sacred dust now reposes beside the chieftains of Lochiel. No funeral in the Highlands was ever so honoured—the great, the noble, the brave, and upwards of 3000 Highlanders were there to pay the last tribute of respect to the beloved soldier, now no more. [Illustration: FRENCH REVOLUTIONARY WAR.] But the great event of these “hundred days” was at hand, as the 18th of June dawned upon the plains of Waterloo.