Bayonne I gave my word not to attempt my escape, and was
accordingly separated from my companions in misfortune, and once more
treated as a gentleman.

The refusal to accept 'parole,' I learned afterwards, was invariably
construed by the French authorities of the day into a direct avowal not
only to attempt escape by any means that might present themselves, but
was also deemed a rejection of the hospitality of the country, which
placed the recusant beyond the pale of its courtesy. No sooner had I
complied with this necessity--for such it was--than I experienced the
greatest kindness and politeness in every quarter. Through every village
in the south, the house of the most respectable inhabitant was always
opened to me; and with a delicacy it would be difficult to match
elsewhere, although the events of the Spanish war were the subjects of
general interest wherever we passed, not a word was spoken nor a hint
dropped before the 'prisoner' which could in the slightest degree offend
his nationality or hurt his susceptibility as an enemy.

*****

I shall now beg of my reader to pass over with me a long interval of
time, during which my life presented nothing of interest or incident,
and accompany me to the environs of St. Omer, where, in the commencement
of the year 1814 I found myself domesticated as a prisoner of war on
parole. During the long period that had elapsed since the battle of
Vittoria, I had but once heard from home. Matters there were pretty much
as I had left them. My father had removed to a colonial appointment,
whence he transmitted the rich revenues of his office to my mother,
whose habitual economy enabled her to dispense hospitality at Bath, much
in the same kind of way as she had formerly done at London. My lovely
cousin--in the full possession of her beauty and a large fortune--had
refused some half-dozen brilliant proposals, and was reported to have an
unswerving attachment to some near relative--which happy individual,
my mother suggested, was myself. Of the Bellews, I learned from the
newspapers that Sir Simon was dead; and Miss Bellew, having recovered
most of the great estates of her family through the instrumentality of a
clever attorney (whom I guessed to be my friend Paul), was now the great
belle and fortune of Dublin. I had frequently written home, and once or
twice to the Rooneys and the Major, but never received any answer; so
that at last I began to think myself forgotten by every one, an