“Oh, sir! it was not wine that trickled down—­it was blood, warm blood!—­and a piteous wail went like a chill across my heart!—­The poor Spaniard opened his cloak—­he pointed to his wounded child—­and his wild eye asked me plainer than words could have done,—­’Monster! are you satisfied!’

“I was sobered in a moment.  I fell upon my knees beside the infant, and I tried to staunch the blood.  Yes, the poor fellow understood the truth:  he saw, and he accepted my anguish—­and we joined our efforts to save the little victim.—­Oh! it was too late!

“The little boy had fastened his small clammy hands round a finger of each of us.  He looked at us alternately; and seemed to ask, alike from his father and his murderer, that help which it was beyond the power of one of earth to give.  The changes in the poor child’s countenance showed that it had few minutes to live.  Sometimes it lay so still I thought the last pang was over; when a slight convulsion would agitate its frame, and a momentary pressure of its little hands, would give the gasping father a short vain ray of hope.

“You may believe, sir, that an old soldier, who has only been able to keep his own life at the expense of an eye and two of his limbs—­who has lingered out many a weary day in a camp-hospital after a hot engagement—­must have learnt to look on death without any unnecessary concern.  I have sometimes wished for it myself; and often have felt thankful when my poor, wounded comrades have been released by it from pain.  I have seen it, too, in other shapes.  I have seen the death-blow dealt, when its effects have been so instant, that the brave heart’s blood has been spilt, and the pulses have ceased to beat, while the streak of life and health was still fresh upon the cheek—­when a smile has remained upon the lips of my brother-soldier, even after he had fallen a corpse across my path.  But, oh! sir, what is all this compared with what I suffered as I watched life ebb slowly from the wound which I had myself so wantonly inflicted in the breast of a helpless, innocent child!—­It was by mistake, by accident.  Oh, yes!  I know it, I know it well; and day and night I have striven to forget that hour.  But it is of no use; the cruel recollection never leaves my mind—­that piteous wail is ever in my ears!—­The father’s agony will follow me to the grave!”—­Legends of the Lib. at Lilies.

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THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

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THE CITADEL OF ANTWERP.

(From personal inspection, by a Contributor to the United Service Journal.)