had been, in days of yore the refectory of an ancient convent, and the
men sat at two long white-wood tables placed facing each other in the
centre of the chamber, while the officers were accommodated with a
table to themselves at the top of the room. During the repast a good
deal of jesting went on, toasts were drunk and wine circulated freely.
Some hot heads amongst the youngsters began to turn, and it became
pretty evident that it was more prudent to consign the men to the
barracks than to allow them to go out after dark through the town. The
colonel consequently gave the captain a hint to that effect. It soon
got noised about, however, and when the colonel retired to his private
room to smoke, his key was suddenly turned from without, and he
was locked in. The same thing happened to the captain and myself.
Presently the most awful noises resounded through the building: "the
army" was in a state of insubordination. Some dozen young fellows came
up to the colonel's door and declared that they would not release him
unless he granted the extra leave which was theirs by right. Furious
was the gallant colonel, and no less so my friend the captain. They
swore terrible vengeance, but the "army" cared little for their
threats. Over each door throughout the whole building is a circular
window, just large enough for a man to put his head through. Wishing
to see what was going on, I got up on a chair and looked out. Down
the corridor was a tide of upturned excited faces. Out of the
next loophole to mine appeared the infuriated face of the colonel.
Presently some bright wit in the lower part of the house was inspired
with the brilliant idea of firing off a gun. This decided matters,
and, making a terrible effort, the colonel burst open his door, and
rushing down the corridor with drawn sword, soon intimidated the
revolutionists. By and by the captain and myself were released from
durance vile, and before twenty minutes elapsed the "revolt" was
over. Decided as was the action of the colonel, it was as kindly
as possible. He treated his men as they deserved--like unruly
boys--locked them up for the night, and promised them a holiday when
they were good.

When I left the guard-house that night it was already long after dark:
the last trains from Monte Carlo were due within half an hour of each
other. I hastened to the station. Almost at its entrance I met an
old friend whose face, I noticed, was deadly pale. He was a man of
consid