onward, admiring the scenary which, at that season in the American climate, is so peculiarly brilliant. We indulged in a conversation, which selected from the past the most soothing recollections, and gilded the future with the pencil of hope. We followed the course of the fortifications until we had passed, almost unconsciously, the last redoubt. The shadows of evening were beginning to conceal the landscape, when we heard the trampling of many feet. The white uniform of the French, and presently that of the Americans were seen, through the trees which skirted our path. My husband had scarcely time to draw his sword, when a volley of shot was poured upon us. A bullet pierced his breast, and he fell without life. I fell with him, senseless as himself. I recovered from my swoon to mourn that I lived, and to feel more than the bitterness of death. Sometimes I fancied that he clasped my hand; but it was only the trickling of his blood through my own. I imagined that he sighed; but it was the breathing of the hollow wind through the reeds where his head lay. I heard the horrible uproar of war in the neighbouring redoubts, the roar of cannon, the clashing of swords, and the cry of men. I knew that the enemy was in the town, but I made no attempt to escape. Whither should I have flown? Among my own people I was a stranger, and were it possible that I should reach England, who would succour me there? An hour passed in the madness of grief, while I was clasping the lifeless form, and supplicating to be made like unto it. A small party
