? Pst! Look! There go the Hundred-Guards! The
Emperor is coming back from the front. It's all over with the
sausage-eaters, et puis--bon-soir, Bismarck!"

Far away, across the hills, the white mantles of the
Hundred-Guards flashed in the sunshine, rising, falling, as the
horses plunged up the hills. For a moment Jack caught a glimpse
of a carriage in the distance, a carriage preceded by outriders
in crimson and gold, and followed by a mass of glittering
cuirassiers.

"It's the Emperor. Listen, we are going to cheer," cried Georges.
He rose in his saddle and drew his sabre, and at the same instant
a deep roar shook the regiment to its centre--

"Vive l'Empereur!"

X

AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER

It was a little after noon when the regiment halted on the
Saint-Avold highway, blocked in front by a train of Guard artillery,
and on either flank by columns of infantry--voltigeurs, red-legged
fantassins loaded with camp equipment, engineers in crimson and
bluish-black, and a whole battalion of Turcos, scarlet fez rakishly
hauled down over one ear, canvas zouave trousers tucked into canvas
leggings that fitted their finely moulded ankles like gloves.

Jack rested patiently on his horse, waiting for the road to be
cleared, and beside him sat Georges, chatting paternally with the
giant standard-bearer of the Turcos. The huge fellow laughed and
showed his dazzling teeth under the crisp jet beard, for Georges
was talking to him in his native tongue--and it was many miles
from Saint-Avold to Oran. His standard, ornamented with the
"opened hand and spread fingers," fluttered and snapped, and
stood out straight in the valley breeze.

"What's that advertisement--the hand of Providence?" cried an
impudent line soldier, leaning on his musket.

"Is it the hand that spanked Bismarck?" yelled another. The
Turcos grinned under their scarlet head-dresses.

"Ohe, Mustapha!" shouted the line soldiers, "Ohe, le Croissant!"
and their band-master, laughing, raised his tasselled baton, and
the band burst out in a roll of drums and cymbals, "Partons pour
la Syrie."

"Petite riffa!" said the big standard-bearer, beaming--which was
very good French for a Kabyle.

"See here, Georges," said Jack, suddenly, "I've promised to be
back at Morteyn before dark, and if your regiment is going to
stick here much longer I'm going on."

"You want to send your despatches?" asked Georges. "You could
ride on to Saarbrueck and telegraph from th