Sunday morning was ushered in by one of the most dreadful tempests I ever remember.  The crashing of thunder was followed by the roar of cannon, which was now distinctly heard from the ramparts, and it is not possible to describe the fearful effect of this apparent mockery of heaven.  I never before felt so forcibly the feebleness of man.  The rain was tremendous—­the sky looked like that in Poussin’s picture of the Deluge, and a heavy black cloud spread, like the wings of a monstrous vulture, over Brussels.  The wounded continued to arrive the whole of Saturday night and Sunday morning, in a condition which defies description.  They appeared to have been dragged for miles through oceans of mud; their clothes were torn, their caps and feathers cut to pieces, and their shoes and boots trodden off.  The accounts they brought were vague and disheartening—­in fact, we could only ascertain that the Duke of Wellington had late on Saturday taken up his position at Waterloo, and that there he meant to wait the attack of the French.  That this attack had commenced we needed not to be informed, as the roar of the cannon became every instant more distinct, till we even fancied that it shook the town.  The wounded represented the field of battle as a perfect quagmire, and their appearance testified the truth of their assertions.  About two o’clock a fresh alarm was excited by the horses, which had been put in requisition to draw the baggage-wagons, being suddenly galloped through the town.  We fancied this a proof of defeat, but the fact was simply thus:  the peasants, from whom the horses had been taken, finding the drivers of the wagons absent from their posts, seized the opportunity to cut the traces, and gallop off with their cattle.  As this explanation, however, was not given till the following day, we thought that all was over; the few British adherents who had remained were in despair, and tri-coloured cockades were suspended from every house.  Even I, for the first time, lost all courage, and my only consolation was the joy of Annette.  “England cannot be much injured by the loss of a Single battle,” thought I; “and as for me, it is of little consequence whether I am a prisoner on parole, or a mere wanderer at pleasure.  I may easily resign myself to my fate; but this poor girl would break her heart if she lost her lover, for he is every thing to her.”  In this manner I reasoned, but in spite of my affected philosophy, I could not divest myself of all natural feeling; and when about six o’clock we heard that the French had given way, and that the Prussians had eluded Grouche, and were rapidly advancing to the field, I quite forgot poor Annette, and thanked God with all my heart.  At eight o’clock there was no longer any doubt of our success, for a battalion of troops marched into the town, and brought intelligence that the Duke of Wellington had gained a complete victory, and that the French were flying, closely pursued by the Prussians.  Sunday night