nion, and shown me that I had gratuitously
thrown away an opportunity of self-defense; but my temper could not brook
the indignity of listening to the tiresome accusation and the stupid
malevolence of the corporal, whose hatred was excited by the influence I
wielded over my comrades.

It was long past noon ere the proceedings terminated, for the list was a
full one, and at length the court rose, apparently not sorry to exchange
their tiresome duties for the pleasant offices of the dinner-table. No
sentences had been pronounced, but one very striking incident seemed to
shadow forth a gloomy future. Three, of whom I was one, were marched off,
doubly guarded, before the rest, and confined in separate cells of the
"Salle," where every precaution against escape too plainly showed the
importance attached to our safe keeping.

At about eight o'clock, as I was sitting on my bed--if that inclined plane
of wood, worn by the form of many a former prisoner, could deserve the
name--a sergeant entered with the prison allowance of bread and water. He
placed it beside me without speaking, and stood for a few seconds gazing
at me.

"What age art thou, lad?" said he, in a voice of compassionate interest.

"Something over fifteen, I believe," replied I.

"Hast father and mother?"

"Both are dead!"

"Uncles or aunts living?"

"Neither."

"Hast any friends who could help thee?"

"That might depend upon what the occasion for help should prove, for I
have one friend in the world."

"Who is he?"

"Colonel Mahon, of the Curaissiers."

"I never heard of him--is he here?"

"No; I left him at Nancy; but I could write to him."

"It would be too late, much too late."

"How do you mean--too late?" asked I, tremblingly.

"Because it is fixed for to-morrow evening," replied he, in a low,
hesitating voice.

"What? the--the--" I could not say the word, but merely imitated the motion
of presenting and firing. He nodded gravely in acquiescence.

"What hour is it to take place?" asked I.

"After evening parade. The sentence must be signed by General Berthier,
and he will not be here before that time."

"It would be too late, then, sergeant," said I, musing, "far too late.
Still I should like to write the letter; I would like to thank him for his
kindness in the past, and show him, too, that I have not been either
unworthy or ungrateful. Could you let me have paper and pen, sergeant?"

"I can venture so far, lad; but I can not le