The humble conscript, as he tore himself from the embraces of his mother, wiped his tearful eyes to see before him in the distance the baton of a marshal.

The bold soldier who stormed a battery felt his heart beat more proudly and more securely beneath the cordon of the Legion than behind a cuirass of steel; and to a people in whom the sense of duty alone would seem cold, barren, and inglorious, he had substituted a highly-wrought chivalrous enthusiasm; and by the _prestige_ of his own name, the proud memory of his battles, and the glory of those mighty tournaments at which all Europe were the spectators, he had converted a nation into an army.
By a silent and instinctive compact we appeared to avoid those topics of the campaign in which the honor of our respective arms was interested; and once, when, by mere accident, the youngest of the party adverted to Fuentes d'Onoro, the old captain adroitly turned the current of the conversation by saying, "Come, Alphonse, let's have a song." "Yes," said the other.

"_Les Pas de Charge_." "No, no," said the captain; "if I am to have a choice, let it be that little Breton song you gave us on the Danube." "So be it then," said Alphonse.

"Here goes!" I have endeavored to convey, by a translation, the words he sang; but I feel conscious how totally their feeling and simplicity are lost when deprived of their own _patois_, and the wild but touching melody that accompanied them.
THE BRETON HOME.
When the battle is o'er, and the sounds of fight Have closed with the closing day, How happy around the watch-fire's light To chat the long hours away; To chat the long hours away, my boy, And talk of the days to come, Or a better still and a purer joy, To think of our far-off home.
How many a cheek will then grow pale, That never felt a tear! And many a stalwart heart will quail, That never quailed in fear! And the breast that like some mighty rock Amidst the foaming sea Bore high against the battle's shock Now heaves like infancy.
And those who knew each other not Their hands together steal, Each thinks of some long hallowed spot, And all like brothers feel: Such holy thoughts to all are given; The lowliest has his part; The love of home, like love of heaven, Is woven in our heart.
There was a pause as he concluded, each sank in his own reflections.

How long we should have thus remained, I know not; but we were speedily aroused from our reveries by the tramp of horses near us.