The action, and the approach of danger in a shape which we had it in our power to repel, roused our dormant feelings, and we joined at Castro. From Castro to Lugo is about forty-eight miles, where we were promised two days’ rest. Why should I continue longer this melancholy narrative? Donald fell out again from sickness; and I from lameness and fatigue. When the French arrived, we formed with the others as before, and they fell back. I heard them, more than once, say, as they turned from the points of our bayonets, that they would rather face a hundred fresh Germans, than ten dying English. So great was the alarm we caused in them. How mortifying to think, at these moments, that we were suffering all our misery, flying from an enemy who dared not fight us, and fled from us, poor wretches as we were! How unaccountable was our situation! None could be more galling to our feelings. While we ran, they pursued;--the moment we faced about, they halted: If we advanced, they retired. Never had we fought but with success; never were we attacked, but we forced them to retire. “Let us all unite, whether our officers will or not, and annihilate these French cowards, and shew our country it is not our fault that we run thus; let us secure our country from disgrace, and take a sweet revenge.” This was the language of the more spirited men, and in it the others joined, from a hope of relieving their miseries. With feelings such as these, with a gradual increase of sufferings, we struggled onwards. Towards the close of this journey, my mind became unfit for any minute observation. I only marked what I myself was forced to encounter. How I was sustained, I am unable to conceive. My life was misery. Hunger, cold, and fatigue, had deprived death of all its horrors. My present sufferings I felt; what death was I could only guess. “I will endure every thing in the hope of living to smooth the closing years of my mother’s life, and atone for my unkindness. Merciful God! support me.” These ejaculations were always the close of my melancholy musing, after which I felt a new invigoration, though many times my reflections were broken short by scenes of horror that came in my way. One, in particular, I found, after I came home, had been much talked of. After we had gained the summit of Monte del Castro, and were descending, I was roused by a crowd of soldiers. My curiosity prompted me to go to it; I knew it must be no common occurrence that could attract _their_ sympathy. Judge of the feelings which I want words to express. In the centre lay a woman, young and lovely, though cold in death, and a child, apparently about six or seven months old, attempting to draw support from the breast of its dead mother. Tears filled every eye, but no one had the power to aid; while we stood around, gazing on the interesting object, then on each other,--none offered to speak, each heart was so full. At length one of General Moore’s staff-officers came