Already had they reached a village near Llandaff, where they proposed to pass the night, when the fineness of the evening tempted them to enjoy the beauties they beheld in an extensive landscape. In passing along a bank from which the ancient walls of the church-yard rose, a groan, replete with anguish, assailed their ears. The heart of Frederick ever felt for the distresses of his fellow-creatures, and, on directing his eye to the spot whence the sound proceeded, a scene presented itself, which awakened every sentiment of pity. A man, whose maimed condition implied the service he had rendered his country, was bending over a grave recently made; his hat was off, and the sun shed his last beams on a face that showed the wreck of every manly beauty, whilst his hair, gently waving in the evening breeze, shaded, and added a softness to the settled grief impressed on his countenance. A lovely girl lay at his feet, embracing the senseless turf, then raising herself, wrung her hands, and, clasping that of her companion sank on the sod in a state of insensibility! "Ellen, Ellen, my child!" exclaimed the mourner. Frederick could refrain no longer, but, rushing through the gateway, raised the senseless Ellen in his arms. Life soon returned, when the Captain (who, with Mr. Talton, had followed Frederick) took the hand of the unhappy man; the softened accent of commiseration hung on his lips, but, the mourner murmuring an entreaty to be spared, withdrew his hand from the friendly grasp, and, taking the weeping girl by the arm, slowly directed his steps from the compassionate intruders. His sorrow was sacred--the Captain felt it; but Frederick, whose attention was fixed on Ellen, perceiving her scarcely able to support herself, again hastened to her assistance, and the Captain waving his hand for his servant to attend him, returned with Mr. Talton to the inn. The scene they had witnessed was too impressive to be erased from their minds; they communicated it to their host, who said--"Ah, your Honour, it was Lieutenant Booyers. Poor gentleman--he is the pity of all who know him, though I knew him when the sun rose not on a happier man: but that time is passed." "And pray, my worthy friend," said the Captain, "to what misfortune does he owe this unhappy change?" "'Tis a mournful tale, your Honours," answered the compassionate Jarvis, "never, I believe, did any man experience more sorrow and misfortune than he has." "If my curiosity be not impertinent," said the Captain, "I would thank you for a few particulars respecting him. I remember a Francis Booyers, who some years since served, at the time I did, on board the Agamemnon; and what I have beheld I acknowledge has interested me. You appear to have known him long." "From his birth, Sir: and, I believe, there are few circumstances of his life with which I am unacquainted.