On the 17th of the month a general order was issued, containing the names of the various officers selected for promotion, as well as of those on whom the cross of the “Legion” was to be conferred. Need I say with what a thrill of exultation I read my own name among the latter, nor my delight at finding it followed by the words, “By order of his Majesty the Emperor, for a special service on the 13th October, 1806.” This was the night before the battle; and now I saw that I had not been forgotten, as I feared,--here was proof of the Emperor's remembrance of me. Perhaps the delay was intended to test my prudence as to secrecy; and perhaps it was deemed fitting that my name should not appear except in the general list: in any case, the long-wished reward was mine,--the proud distinction I had desired for so many a day and night. The distribution of the “cordons” was always made the occasion of a grand military spectacle, and the Emperor determined that the present one should convey a powerful impression of the effective strength of his army, as well as of its perfect equipment; and accordingly orders were despatched to the different generals of division within twelve or fifteen leagues of Berlin, to march their corps to the capital. The 28th of November was the day fixed for this grand display, and all was bustle and preparation for the event. On the morning of the 22d, I received an official note from the bureau of the adjutant-general desiring me to wait on him before noon that same day. Concluding it referred to my promised promotion to the “Legion,” it was with somewhat of a fluttered and excited feeling I found myself, at some few minutes after eleven o'clock, in the antechamber, which already was crowded with officers, some seeking, some summoned to an interview. In the midst of the buzz of conversation, which, despite the reserve of the place, still prevailed, I heard my name called, and followed an aide-de-camp along a passage into a large room, which opened into a smaller apartment, where, standing with his back to the fire, I perceived Marshal Berthier, his only companion being an officer in a staff uniform, busily engaged writing at a table. “You are Captain Burke, of the Eighth Hussars, I believe, sir?” said the marshal, reading slowly from a slip of paper he held twisted round one finger. “Yes, sir.” “By birth an Irishman,” continued the marshal; “entered at the Polytechnique in August, 1801. Am I correct?” I bowed. “Subsequently accused of being concerned in the conspiracy of Georges and Pichegru,” resumed he, as he raised his eyes slightly from the paper, and fixed them searchingly upon me. “Falsely so, sir,” was my only reply. “You were acquitted,--that's enough: a reprimand for imprudence, and a slight punishment of arrest, was all. Since that time, you have conducted yourself, as the report of your commanding officer attests, with zeal and steadiness.”