had been shot off. It was not till then that he became sensible, with gratitude to the Almighty, that he had still both his legs: his right hand was lamed by the fall; he had a sabre wound in his head, a ball in his breast, and Mimili in his heart.
As soon as he was able to rise, he turned off to the left, with the intention of making the best of his way to Switzerland, that he might be nursed by Mimili. He proceeded twelve miles that night, and in the morning sunk down exhausted near a small town. A miller passed with his team. William mustered his last remains of strength and self-possession to offer the man all the money he had about him, if he would convey him to Unterseen, in the canton of Berne, intending to be forwarded on horseback from that place to Mimili’s Alp. The miller, after some demur and calculation, assented, and William’s senses again forsook him.
“From this time,” continues Mimili, in her letter, “William knew nothing, but that he was carried a long, infinitely long way, in a waggon, the bottom of which was covered with straw; that he was pitied by strange faces; and that his wounds were dressed by unfeeling surgeons. Whether his insensibility was owing to fever, or to excessive loss of blood, or to the particular effect of the wound in the head, he cannot tell: in short, he has no distinct idea of what hap-
