It is difficult to imagine that the English General could in any way have anticipated so easy a conquest. He had no reason to undervalue the resolution of the enemy, and yet he appears to have been fully sanguine of the success of his undertaking. Possibly he counted much on his own decision and judgment, which, added to the confidence reposed in him by all ranks and branches of the expedition, he might have felt fully adequate to the overthrow of the mere difficulty arising from inferiority of numbers. Whatever his motive, or however founded his expectations of success, the service he performed was eminent, since he not merely relieved Amherstburgh, the key of Upper Canada, from all immediate danger, but at a single blow annihilated the American power throughout that extensive frontier. That this bold measure, powerfully contrasted as it was with his own previous vacillation of purpose, had greatly tended to intimidate the American General, and to render him distrustful of his own resources, there can be little doubt. The destructive fire from the well-served breaching batteries, was moreover instanced as an influencing cause of the capitulation; and there can be no question, that a humane consideration for the defenceless town, surrounded by hordes of Indians, had much to do with the decision of the American General.

In justice to many officers of rank, and to the garrison generally, it must be admitted that the decision of their leader, if credence might be given to their looks and language, was anything but satisfactory to them, and it must be confessed that it must have been mortifying in the extreme, to have yielded without a blow a fortress so well provided with the means of defence. What the result would have been had the British columns mounted to the assault, it is impossible to say. That they would have done their duty is beyond all question, but there is no reason to believe the Americans, under a suitable commander, would have failed in theirs. Superiority of numbers and position was on the one side; a daring Chief, an ardent desire of distinction, and the impossibility of retreat without humiliation, on the other.

In alluding thus to the capitulation of Detroit, we beg not to be understood as either reflecting on the American character, or doubting their courage. Question of personal bravery there was none, since no appeal was made to arms; but the absence of sanguinary event left in high relief the daring of the British commander, whose promptitude and genius alone secured to him so important yet bloodless a conquest. Had he evinced the slightest indecision, or lost a moment in preparing for action, the American General would have had time to rally, and believing him to be not more enterprising than his predecessors, would have recovered from his panic and assumed an attitude at once, more worthy of his trust, commensurate with his means of defence, and in keeping with his former reputation. The quick apprehension of his opponent immediately caught the weakness, while his ready action grappled intuitively with the advantage it presented. The batteries, as our narrative has shown, were opened without delay—the flotilla worked up the river within sight of the fortress—and the troops and Indians effected their landing in full view of the enemy. In fact, everything was conducted in a manner to show a determination of the most active and undoubted description. With what result has been seen.

It was in the evening of the day of surrender, that the little English squadron, freighted with the prisoners taken in Detroit, dropped slowly past Amherstburgh, into Lake Erie. By an article in the capitulation, it had been stipulated, that the irregular troops should be suffered to return to their homes, under the condition that they should not again serve during the war, while those of the line were to be conducted to the Lower Province, there to remain until duly exchanged. The appearance as captives of those who had, only a few days before, been comfortably established on the Sandwich shore, and had caused the country to feel already some of the horrors of invasion—naturally enough drew forth most of the inhabitants to witness the sight; and as the Sunday stroll of the little population of Amherstburgh led in the direction of Elliot's point, where the lake began, the banks were soon alive with men, women and children, clad in holiday apparel, moving quickly to keep up with the gliding vessels, and apparently, although not offensively exulting in the triumph of that flag, beneath which the dense masses of their enemies were now departing from their rescued territory.

Among those whom the passing barks had drawn in unusual numbers to the river's side, were the daughters of Colonel D'Egville, whose almost daily practice it was to take the air in that direction, where there was so much of the sublime beauty of American scenery to arrest the attention. Something more, however, than that vague curiosity which actuated the mass, seemed to have drawn the sisters to the bank, and one who had watched them narrowly must have observed, that their interest was not divided among the many barks that glided onward to the lake, but was almost exclusively attracted by one, which now lay to, with her light bows breasting the current like a swan, and apparently waiting either for a boat that had been dispatched to the shore, or with an intention to send one. This vessel was filled in every part with troops wearing the blue uniform of the American regular army, while those in advance were freighted with the irregulars and backwoodsmen.

"Is not this, Julia, the vessel to which the Commodore promised to promote Gerald, in reward of his gallant conduct last week?" asked the timid Gertrude, with a sigh, as they stood stationary for a few moments, watching the issue of the manoeuvre just alluded to.

"It is, Gertrude," was the answer of one whose fixed eye and abstracted thought, betokened an interest in the same vessel, of a nature wholly different from that of her questioner.

"How very odd, then, he does not come on shore to us. I am sure he must see us, and it would not take him two minutes to let us know he is unhurt, and to shake hands with us. It is very unkind of him I think."

Struck by the peculiar tone in which the last sentence had been uttered Julia D'Egville turned her eyes full upon those of her sister. The latter could not stand the inquiring gaze, but sought the ground, while a conscious blush confirmed the suspicion.

"Dearest Gertrude," she said, as she drew the clasped arm of her sister more fondly within her own; "I see how it is; but does he love you in return. Has he ever told you so, or hinted it. Tell me, my dear girl."

"Never," faltered the sensitive Gertrude, and she hung her head, to conceal the tear that trembled in her eye.

Her sister sighed deeply, and pressed the arm she held more closely within her own. "My own own sister, for worlds I would not pain you; but if you would be happy, you must not yield to this preference for our cousin. Did you not remark how completely he seemed captivated by Miss Montgomerie? Depend upon it, his affections are centered in her."

Gertrude made no reply, but tears trickled down her cheeks, as they both slowly resumed their walk along the beach. Presently the splash of oars was heard, and turning quickly to discover the cause, Julia saw a boat leave the vessel, at which they had just been looking, and pull immediately towards them. In the stern stood an officer in American uniform, whom the eyes of love were not slow to distinguish, even in the growing dusk of the evening.

"It is Ernest," exclaimed the excited girl, forgetting for a moment her sister in herself. "I thought he would not have departed without seeking to see me."

A few strokes of the oars were sufficient to bring the boat to the shore. The American stepped out, and leaving the boat to follow the direction of the vessel, now drifting fast with the current towards the outlet, which the remainder of the flotilla had already passed, pursued his course along the sands in earnest conversation with the sisters, or rather with one of them, for poor Gertrude, after the first salutation, seemed to have lost all inclination to speak.

"Fate, dearest Julia," said the officer despondingly, "has decreed our interview earlier than I had expected. However, under all circumstances, I may esteem myself happy to have seen you at all. I am indebted for this favor to the officer commanding yonder vessel, in which our regiment is embarked, for the satisfaction, melancholy as it is, of being enabled to bid you a temporary farewell."

"Then are we both indebted to one of my own family for the happiness; for that it is a happiness, Ernest, I can answer from the depression of my spirits just now, when I feared you were about to depart without seeing me at all. The officer in command of your vessel is, or ought to be, a cousin of our own."

"Indeeed!—then is he doubly entitled to my regard. But, Julia, let the brief time that is given us be devoted to the arrangement of plans for the future. I will not for a moment doubt your faith, after what occurred at our last interview; but shall I be certain of finding you here, when later we return to wash away the stain this day's proceedings have thrown upon our national honor. Forgive me, if I appear to mix up political feelings, with private grief, but it cannot be denied, (and he smiled faintly through the mortification evidently called up by the recollection), that to have one's honor attainted, and to lose one's mistress in the same day, are heavier taxes on human patience, than it can be expected a soldier should quietly bear."

"And when I am yours at a later period, I suppose you will expect me to be as interested in the national honor, as you are," replied Julia, anxious to rally him on a subject she felt, could not but be painful to a man of high feelings, as she fully believed the Colonel to be. "How are we to reconcile such clashing interests? How am I so far to overcome my natural love for the country which gave me birth, so to rejoice in its subjugation by yours; and yet, that seems to be the eventual object at which you hint. Your plan, if I understand right, is to return here with an overwhelming army; overrun the province, and make me your property by right of conquest, while all connected with me, by blood, or friendship, are to be borne into captivity. If we marry, sir, we must draw lots which of us shall adopt a new country."

"Nay, dearest Julia, this pleasantry is unseasonable. I certainly do intend, provided I am exchanged in time to return here with the army, which I doubt not will be instantly dispatched to restore our blighted fame, and then I shall claim you as my own. Will you then hesitate to become mine? Even as the daughter forsakes the home of her father without regret, to pass her days with him who is to her father, mother, all the charities of life, in short—so should she forsake her native land adopting in preference that to which her husband is attached by every tie of honor, and of duty. However, let us hope that ere long, the folly of this war will be seen, and that the result of such perception, will be a peace founded on such permanent bases, that each shall be bound, by an equal tie of regard, to the home of the other."

"Let us hope so," eagerly replied Julia. "But what has become of our friend, Miss Montgomerie, in all the confusion of this day. Or am I right in supposing that she and her uncle are of the number of those embarked in my cousin's vessel?"

The name of the interesting American, coupled as it was, with that of one infinitely more dear to her, caused Gertrude for the first time, to look up in the face of the officer, in expectation of his reply. She was struck by the sudden paleness that came over his features again, as on the former occasion, when allusion was made to her at his recent visit to Amherstburgh. He saw that his emotion was remarked, and sought to hide it under an appearance of unconcern, as he replied:

"Neither Miss Montgomerie nor her uncle are embarked. The latter, I regret to say, has been one of the few victims who have fallen."

"What! dead—that excellent kind old man—dead," demanded the sisters nearly in the same breath?

"No; not dead—but I fear with little hope of life. He was desperately wounded soon after daybreak this morning, and when I saw him half an hour afterwards, he had been given over by the surgeons."

"Poor Major Montgomerie," sighed Gertrude; "I felt when he was here the other day, that I could have loved him almost as my own father. How broken-hearted his niece must be at his loss!"

A sneer of bitterness passed over the fine features of the American as he replied with emphasis:

"Nay, dear Gertrude, your sympathies are but ill bestowed. Miss Montgomerie's heart will scarcely sustain the injury you seem to apprehend."

"What mean you, Ernest?" demanded Julia, with eagerness. "How is it that you judge thus harshly of her character. How, in short, do you pretend to enter into her most secret feelings, and yet deny all but a general knowledge of her? What can you possibly know of her heart?"

"I merely draw my inferences from surmise," replied the Colonel, after a few moments of pause. "The fact is, I have the vanity to imagine myself a correct reader of character, and my reading of Miss Montgomerie's has not been the happiest."

Julia's look betrayed incredulity. "There is evidently some mystery in all this," she rejoined; "but I will not seek to discover more than you choose at present to impart. Later I may hope to possess more of your confidence. One question more, however, and I have done. Have you seen her since your return to Detroit, and did she give you my letter?"

The Colonel made no answer, but produced from his pocket a note, which Julia at once recognised as her own.

"Then," said Gertrude, "there was not so much danger after all, in intrusting it. You seemed to be in a sad way, when you first heard that it had been given to her."

"I would have pledged myself for its safe deliverance," added her sister; "for the promise was too solemnly given to be broken."

"And solemnly has it been kept," gravely returned the American. "But hark! already are they hailing the boat, and we must part."

The time occupied in conversation had brought them down to the extreme point where the river terminated and the lake commenced. Beyond this lay a sand bar, which it was necessary to clear before the increasing dusk of the evening rendered it hazardous. All the other vessels had already passed it, and were spreading their white sails before the breeze, which here, unbroken by the island, impelled them rapidly onward. A few strokes of the oar, and the boat once more touched the beach. Low and fervent adieus were exchanged, and the American, resuming his station in the stern, was soon seen to ascend the deck he had so recently quitted. For a short time the sisters continued to watch the movements of the vessel, as she in turn having passed, spread all her canvass to the wind, until the fast fading twilight warning them to depart, they retraced their steps along the sands to the town. Both were silent and pensive; and while all around them found subject for rejoicing in the public events of the day, they retired at an early hour, to indulge at leisure in the several painful retrospections which related more particularly to themselves.