Never was a Sabbath spent in a more unchristian manner than that of the 18th June, 1815, on the plains of Waterloo. At night the news of the success of the British arrived in Brussels, and before sunrise on the following morning the merchant in whose house George Nicholson had been lodged, drove through the _Porte de Namur_, with his daughter Louise by his side. At every step of their journey appalling spectacles presented themselves before them; and, as they proceeded, they became more and more horrible. They were compelled to quit their vehicle, for the roads were blocked up, and proceeded through the forest _de Soignes_, into which many of the wounded had crawled to die, or to escape being trampled on by the pain-maddened horses. On emerging from the forest, the disgusting shambles of war, with its human carcases, its blood, its wounded, and its dying, spread all its horrors before them. From the late rains, the field was as a morass. Conquerors and the conquered were covered with mud. Here lay heaps of dead--there, soldier and citizen dug pits to bury them in crowds, and they were hurled into a common grave, "Unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown." Let the eyes turn where they would, there the ghastly sight of the wounded met them; nor could the ear be rendered deaf to the groans of the dying, and the cry from every quarter and in every tongue of "Water! water!"--for the wounded were perishing from thirst, and their throats were parched and their tongues dry. There, too, prowled the plunderer, robbing the dead--the new-made widow sought her husband, and the mother her son. To and fro rushed hundreds of war-horses, in foam and in agony, without curb or rider--others lay kicking and snorting on the ground, their broad chests heaving with the throes of departing life, and struggling as though they thought themselves stronger than death. Louise and her father were shown to the positions that had been occupied by the Highland regiments. They inquired of every one whom they met, and who wore the garb of Old Scotland, if they could tell them aught of the fate of Serjeant Nicholson; but they shook their heads, and answered, "No." Louise was a beautiful and interesting girl, and the bloom of nineteen summers blushed on her cheeks; but they were now pale, and her dark eyes were bedimmed with tears. She leaned upon her father's arm, and they were passing near a field of rye, which was trodden down as though a scythe had been passed over it. Many dead and dying Highlanders lay near it. Before them lay a wounded man, whose face was covered and disfigured with blood--he was gasping for water, and his glazed eyes were unconscious of the earnestness and affection with which they gazed on him. "It is he!--it is he!" cried Louise. It was indeed George Nicholson.