Fakenham of Fakenham in such a way as
made my patron to be convulsed with laughter, and he told me afterwards
that he had repeated the story at Madame de Kamake's evening assembly,
where all the world was anxious to have a sight of the young Englander.

'Was the British Ambassador there?' I asked, in a tone of the greatest
alarm, and added, 'For Heaven's sake, sir, do not tell my name to him,
or he might ask to have me delivered up: and I have no fancy to go to
be hanged in my dear native country.' Potzdorff, laughing, said he would
take care that I should remain where I was, on which I swore eternal
gratitude to him.

Some days afterwards, and with rather a grave face, he said to me,
'Redmond, I have been talking to our colonel about you, and as I
wondered that a fellow of your courage and talents had not been advanced
during the war, the general said they had had their eye upon you: that
you were a gallant soldier, and had evidently come of a good stock; that
no man in the regiment had had less fault found with him; but that no
man merited promotion less. You were idle, dissolute, and unprincipled;
you had done a deal of harm to the men; and, for all your talents and
bravery, he was sure would come to no good.'

'Sir!' said I, quite astonished that any mortal man should have formed
such an opinion of me, 'I hope General Bulow is mistaken regarding my
character. I have fallen into bad company, it is true; but I have only
done as other soldiers have done; and, above all, I have never had a
kind friend and protector before, to whom I might show that I was worthy
of better things. The general may say I am a ruined lad, and send me to
the d---l: but be sure of this, I would go to the d---l to serve YOU.'
This speech I saw pleased my patron very much; and, as I was very
discreet and useful in a thousand delicate ways to him, he soon came to
have a sincere attachment for me. One day, or rather night, when he
was tete-a-tete with the lady of the Tabaks Rath von Dose for instance,
I--But there is no use in telling affairs which concern nobody now.

Four months after my letter to my mother, I got, under cover to the
Captain, a reply, which created in my mind a yearning after home, and
a melancholy which I cannot describe. I had not seen the dear soul's
writing for five years. All the old days, and the fresh happy sunshine
of the old green fields in Ireland, and her love, and my uncle, and Phil
Purcell, and everything that I