In _post mortem_ experience I was a novice. Of course, like every Irish boy who made his _entrée_ on the world five and forty years ago, I had seen a criminal hanged, and a gentleman shot occasionally. To do him justice, old Doctor Dozey, “our very learned and approved good master,” was an indulgent and considerate divine; and as the school was in an assize town, where hanging-matches and affairs of honour came off frequently, we were always, on such occasions, favoured with a half-holiday, to enable us to have a sly peep at the proceedings. Although I had often been “in at the death,” yet with the exception of Mr. Sloman, I had never seen the defunct after this mortal coil had been shuffled off; and hence the appearance of the countenance, where death had been violent, was new to me. I turned my eyes to the bench where the body of the Frenchman lay, and, for many a day afterwards, the dead man’s face was painfully recollected. I was told that the departed soldier had been considered particularly handsome, but looking at his countenance after death, I never could have imagined it. Its expression was that of one whose spirit had departed in intense agony, and every feature was distorted. I saw his companions shudder as they looked upon the corpse; and, after one hurried glance, the old colonel turned his eyes away, and signed to a chasseur to replace the cloak, which had been removed to permit him to view the body of his fwourite nephew. “_Now_ for another duty,” the old man muttered. “Place these prisoners before me!” and, drawing himself stiffly up with his back to the fire, he remained in gloomy meditation, while the guerillas and myself were conducted from our benches, and drawn up in front of a judge from whom, were the countenance an index of the heart, little mercy could be hoped for. “Who are ye?” he said, addressing himself to me; “you wear an English uniform--stolen from the living, or stripped from the dead?--say which.” “Neither,” I returned, boldly; “mine is the dress that my rank entitles me to wear--I am a British officer.” “And wherefore the companion of brigands? Why are you the confederate of these murderers?” “I am not their companion,” was the reply; “I knew not who or what they were. By accident I met them here last night.” “You knew them not, and yet you ate with them, drank with them, fought with them.” “I did.” “You shot a French chasseur, and cut down a second, as I am informed.” “It is true; these things I did in order to effect escape.” “Then, did you not meet these bandits here by previous appointment? Are you not a spy--ha?” exclaimed the colonel. “No--this posada lay directly in my route, as I was bound for Valencia. Chance brought these men and myself together, and I knew nothing of their designs, their names, nor their occupations. On this head, my guide, the muleteer, will satisfy you.”