Two hours after midnight, the gaiety of “fair Brussels” closed--the drums beat to arms, and all was hurry and preparation. Momentarily the din increased, “and louder yet the clamour grew,” as the Highland pibroch answered the bugle-call of the light infantry.[290] The soldiery, startled from their sleep, poured out from the now deserted dwellings; and the once peaceful city exhibited a general alarm. The sun rose on a scene of confusion and excitement. The military assembled in the Place Royale; and the difference of individual character might be traced in the respective bearings of the various soldiery. Some were taking a tender--many, a last leave of wives and children--others, stretched upon the pavement, were listlessly waiting for their comrades to come up--while not a few strove to snatch a few moments of repose, and appeared half insensible to the din of war around them. Waggons were loading and artillery harnessing; orderlies and aides-de-camp rode rapidly through the streets; and in the gloom of early morning the pavement sparkled beneath the iron feet of the cavalry, as they hurried along the causeway to join their respective squadrons, which were now collecting in the Park. The appearance of the British brigades as they filed from the Park and took the road to Soignies, was most imposing. The martial air of the Highland regiments, the bagpipes playing at their head, their tartans fluttering in the breeze, and the early sunbeams flashing from their glittering arms, excited the admiration of the burghers who had assembled to see them march. During the winter and spring, while they had garrisoned Brussels, their excellent conduct and gentle demeanour had endeared them to the inhabitants; and “they were so domesticated in the houses where they were quartered, that it was no uncommon thing to see the Highland soldier taking care of the children, or keeping the shop of his host.”[291] Regiment after regiment marched-- the organization of all most perfect:--the Rifles, Royals, 28th-- each exhibiting some martial peculiarity, on which the eye of Picton appeared to dwell with pride and pleasure as they filed off before him. To an intelligent spectator a national distinction was clearly marked. The bearing of the Scotch bespoke a grave and firm determination-- while the light step and merry glance of the Irish militiaman told that war was the game he loved, and a first field had no terrors for him. Eight o’clock pealed from the steeple clocks; all was quiet--the brigades, with their artillery and equipages, were gone--the crash of music was heard no longer--the bustle of preparation had ceased--and an ominous and heart-sinking silence succeeded the noise and hurry that ever attends a departure for the field of battle.