"When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. It occasionally troubled the major that Hilary’s staunch loyalty had led him into hair-raising exploits at Gerald’s side, for he was perfectly aware that Hilary would not have dreamed of deserting him. Acting upon this humane determination, he impelled himself slowly backwards,—for he did not dare to face the blast,—and with incredible labour and fatigue reached the crevice. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four.
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