I come now to the memorable night of June 15th, concerning which and the end it brought upon the festivities of Brussels so much has been written.  All the world has heard of the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, and seems to conspire in decking it out with pretty romantic fables.  To contradict the most of these were waste of time; but I may point out (1) that the ball was over and, I believe, all the company dispersed, before the actual alarm awoke the capital; and (2) that all responsible officers gathered there shared the knowledge that such an alarm was impending, might arrive at any moment, and would almost certainly arrive within a few hours.  News of the French advance across the frontier and attack on General Zieten’s outposts had reached Wellington at three o’clock that afternoon.  It should have been brought five hours earlier; but he gave his orders at once, and quietly, and already our troops were massing for defence upon Nivelles.  We of the Reserve had secret orders to hold ourselves prepared.  Obedient to a hint from their Commander-in-chief, the generals of division and brigade who attended the Duchess’ ball withdrew themselves early on various pleas.  Her Grace had honoured me with an invitation, probably because I represented a Highland regiment; and Highlanders (especially the Gordons, her brother’s regiment) were much to the fore that night with reels, flings, and strathspeys.  The many withdrawals warned me that something was in the wind, and after remaining just so long as seemed respectful, I took leave of my hostess and walked homewards across the city as the clocks were striking eleven.

We of the Morays had our headquarters in a fairly large building—­the Hotel de Liege—­in time of peace a resort of commis-voyageurs of the better class.  It boasted a roomy hall, out of which opened two coffee-rooms, converted by us into guard- and mess-room.  A large drawing-room on the first floor overlooking the street served me for sleeping as well as working quarters, and to reach it I must pass the entresol, where a small apartment had been set aside for occasional uses.  We made it, for instance, our ante-room, and assembled there before mess; a few would retire there for smoking or card-playing; during the day it served as a waiting-room for messengers or any one whose business could not be for the moment attended to.

I had paused at the entrance to put some small question to the sentry, when I heard the crash of a chair in this room, and two voices broke out in fierce altercation.  An instant after, the mess-room door opened, and Captain Murray, without observing me, ran past me and up the stairs.  As he reached the entresol, a voice—­my brother’s—­called down from an upper landing, and demanded, “What’s wrong there?”

“I don’t know, Major,” Captain Murray answered, and at the same moment flung the door open.  I was quick on his heels, and he wheeled round in some surprise at my voice, and to see me interposed between him and my brother, who had come running downstairs, and now stood behind my shoulder in the entrance.