On the ever-memorable morning of the battle of Belle-Alliance (Waterloo), Hennemann had just handed a pipe to his master, when a cannon-ball struck the ground near, so that earth and sand covered Bluecher and his gray horse. The horse made a spring to one side, and the beautiful new pipe was broken before the old hero had taken a single puff. 'Fill another pipe for me,' said Bluecher; 'keep it lighted, and wait for me here a moment, till I drive away the French rascals. Forwards, lads!' Thereupon there was a rush forwards; but the chase lasted not only 'a moment,' but a whole hot day. At the Belle-Alliance Inn, which was demolished by shot,--the battle having at last been gained,--the victorious friends, Bluecher and Wellington, met and congratulated each other on the grand and nobly achieved work, each praising the bravery of the other's troops. 'Your fellows slash in like the very devil himself!' cried Wellington. Bluecher replied, 'Yes; you see, that is their business. But brave as they are, I know not whether one of them would stand as firmly and calmly in the midst of the shower of balls and bullets as your English.' Then Wellington asked Bluecher about his previous position on the field of battle, which had enabled him to execute an attack so fatal to the enemy. Bluecher, who could strike tremendous blows, but was by no means a consummate orator, and could not paint his deeds in words, conducted Wellington to the place itself. They found it completely deserted; but on the very spot where Bluecher had that morning halted, and from which he had galloped away, stood a man with his head bound up, and with his arm wrapped in a handkerchief. He smoked a long, dazzling white clay pipe. 'Good God!' exclaimed Bluecher, 'that is my servant, Christian Hennemann. What a strange look you have, man! What are you doing here?' 'Have you come at last?' answered Christian Hennemann, in a grumbling tone; 'here I have stood the whole day, waiting for you. One pipe after another have the cursed French shot away from my mouth. Once even a blue bean (a bullet) made sad work with my head, and my fist has got a deuce of a smashing. That is the last whole pipe, and it is a good thing that the firing has ceased; otherwise, the French would have knocked this pipe to pieces, and you must have stood there with a dry mouth.' He then handed the lighted pipe to his master, who took it, and after a few eagerly-enjoyed whiffs, said to his faithful servant, 'It is true, I have kept you waiting a long time; but to-day the French fellows could not be forced to run all at once.' With astonishment, Wellington listened to the conversation. Amazed, he looked now at the Field-Marshal, now at the 'Pipe-master,' and now at the branches of trees and the balls scattered all round, which made it only too evident what a dangerous post this spot must have been during the battle. The wound in Hennemann's head proved to be somewhat