A few miles farther we crossed the Senne by an old stone bridge, and about four in the afternoon arrived at Braine le Comte, almost ravenous with hunger, and roasted alive by the burning sun under which we had been marching all day. The country had improved and become more wooded, so that the town looked pretty, surrounded as it is by gardens and trees. We were not allowed (why, I know not) to see more; for on arriving at one end of it we turned into a road on the left, and so, making a circuit round the back of the gardens, came out at the other end on a piece of bare ground, where we found several regiments drawn up in close columns, dismounted and feeding. It was somewhere between Enghien and Braine le Comte that we met an aide-de-camp (I believe one of the Duke’s) posting away as fast as his poor tired beast could get along, and dressed in his embroidered suit, white pantaloons, &c. &c., having evidently mounted as he left the ball-room. This, I remember, struck us at the time as rather odd, but we had no idea of the real state of our affairs. We had formed up, and were feeding also, but the nosebags were scarcely put on the poor horses’ heads than the cavalry corps, mounting again, moved off, one after the other, and we were constrained to follow ere the animals had half finished. Here, as before, I could obtain no intelligence respecting our march, the direction and meaning of which all I spoke to professed a profound ignorance. Whilst halting, Hitchins, slipping into the town, brought us out a couple of bottles of wine, the which we passed round from one to the other without any scruple about sucking it all out of one muzzle. This renewal of our march was a sad disappointment, for on finding the cavalry assembled here, we made sure they were only waiting until the different bivouacs could be arranged, when we should settle ourselves for the night. In marching round the town, many of the houses had a sort of gallery behind them, which were filled with spectators, particularly many priests. The gardens were very pretty, and I could not but contrast the comparative luxury of these people, snug and comfortable, and sure of their bed when night came on, with our own vagabond situation. The country beyond Braine le Comte was pretty, the usual rich and wooded champaign extending to the foot of an abrupt ridge of hills, covered with forest to the summit, and toward which our road lay.