Harbottle gave a minute
account, for the sixth time, of the Disaster of a friend in India, who
had his leg bitten off by a tiger, whilst he was hunting; and was
proceeding to menace the company with a chapter or two about Tippoo
Saib.

At length the captain bethought himself and said, he believed he had a
manuscript tale lying in one corner of his campaigning trunk, which,
if he could find, and the company were desirous, he would read to
them. The offer was eagerly accepted. He retired, and soon returned
with a roll of blotted manuscript, in a very gentlemanlike, but nearly
illegible, hand, and a great part written on cartridge-paper.

"It is one of the scribblings," said he, "of my poor friend, Charles
Lightly, of the dragoons. He was a curious, romantic, studious,
fanciful fellow; the favourite, and often the unconscious butt of his
fellow-officers, who entertained themselves with his eccentricities.
He was in some of the hardest service in the peninsula, and
distinguished himself by his gallantry. When the intervals of duty
permitted, he was fond of roving about the country, visiting noted
places, and was extremely fond of Moorish ruins. When at his quarters,
he was a great scribbler, and passed much of his leisure with his pen
in his hand.

"As I was a much younger officer, and a very young man, he took me, in
a manner, under his care, and we became close friends. He used often
to read his writings to me, having a great confidence in my taste, for
I always praised them. Poor fellow! he was shot down close by me, at
Waterloo. We lay wounded together for some time, during a hard contest
that took place near at hand. As I was least hurt, I tried to relieve
him, and to stanch the blood which flowed from a wound in his breast.
He lay with his head in my lap, and looked up thankfully in my face,
but shook his head faintly, and made a sign that it was all over with
him; and, indeed, he died a few minutes afterwards, just as our men
had repulsed the enemy, and came to our relief. I have his favourite
dog and his pistols to this day, and several of his manuscripts, which
he gave to me at different times. The one I am now going to read, is a
tale which he said he wrote in Spain, during the time that he lay ill
of a wound received at Salamanca."

We now arranged ourselves to hear the story. The captain seated
himself on the sofa, beside the fair Julia, who I had noticed to be
somewhat affected by the picture he had carele