“Among the soldiers who did duty near our prison, was an old grenadier, and sometimes we surprised him gazing at us with deep and marked emotion; but the moment he found himself observed, he would resume his ferocious countenance and turn away. On a particular day of festival, when discipline somewhat relaxed from its severity, our grenadier was sentry over us, and having looked cautiously around, he growled out a curse at the English prisoners, and thrust his bayonet towards the grated bars of the window. At first, I thought he designed to stab me; but observing something like white paper screwed up in the muzzle of his firelock, it was instantly in my hand, and the piece withdrawn. Hope once more played round my heart; it was a note in broken English, expressive of sympathetic feeling, and promising assistance. The writer had been a prisoner in England, and had shared the generous hospitality of my countrymen; but what conveyed the greatest delight to my mind, was assurances of the safety of the dear girls. After reading this unexpected epistle, we looked down towards the veteran; but no effort could again draw his attention, he continued pacing his post till relieved, without taking the slightest notice. Means of communication we had none, and several weeks of intense anxiety passed away without again seeing the grenadier. Wirrion would frequently come to glut his brutal malice, and never failed to drop some threatening hint of his future intentions. “One afternoon, the grenadier again appeared before our prison; but the other sentinels were too near for him to convey any thing of which he was possessed, though it appeared evident that such was his intention. Recollecting the mode of receiving the last communication, I uttered a torrent of abusive and provoking language; he seemed to understand my meaning, and thrusting the bayonet through the bars, my hands grasped the paper, and unfolded an affectionate yet mournful epistle from Euphemia and Adele. The latter had been imprisoned, and every method resorted to which was likely to effect her destruction; but, happily, she had escaped all the machinations of the villain Wirrion. Her wound had been healed, and she was again restored to liberty. This letter was enclosed in a paper written on, I believe, by yourself with a pencil.” “I remember it,” said I; “it was to give you hopes of escape, as several had united in the cause, determined to set you at liberty; but the commandant traversed our design. A Frenchman we entrusted, betrayed our secret.”