rose folded in my handkerchief—the little parting gage—the
"Favour secret, sweet, and precious;"
which no mortal eye but hers and mine had seen conveyed to me.
The care of the host of the Belle Etoile, and his assistants, had raised the wounded hero of a hundred rights partly against the wall, and propped him at each side with portmanteaus and pillows, and poured a glass of brandy, which was duly placed to his account, into his big mouth, where, for the first time, such a Godsend remained unswallowed.
A bald-headed little military surgeon of sixty, with spectacles, who had cut off eightyseven legs and arms to his own share, after the battle of Eylau, having retired with his sword and his saw, his laurels and his sticking-plaster to this, his native town, was called in, and rather thought the gallant
