"--An English lady, elegantly
attired, now rushed forwards--"Is my husband safe?" asked she
eagerly.--"Good God! Madam," replied one of the men, "how can we
possibly tell! I don't know the fate of those who were fighting by my
side; and I could not see a yard round me." She scarcely heeded what he
said; and rushed out of the gate, wildly repeating her question to every
one she met. Some French prisoners now arrived. I noticed one, a fine
fellow, who had had one arm shot off; and though the bloody and mangled
tendons were still undressed, and had actually dried and blackened in
the sun, he marched along with apparent indifference, carrying a loaf of
bread under his remaining arm, and shouting _"Vive l'Empereur!"_ I asked
him if the French were coming.--"Je le crois bien," returned he,
"preparez un souper, mes bourgeois--il soupera a Bruxelles ce
soir."--Pretty information for me, thought I. "Don't believe him, sir,"
said a Scotchman, who lay close beside me, struggling to speak, though
apparently in the last agony. "It's all right--I--assure--you--." The
whole of Friday night was passed in the greatest anxiety; the wounded
arrived every hour, and the accounts they brought of the carnage which
was taking place were absolutely terrific. Saturday morning was still
worse; an immense number of supernumeraries and runaways from the army
came rushing in at the _Porte de Namur,_ and these fugitives increased
the public panic to the utmost.
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