ters?"

"Very true," said another; "he may be absent, or at table."

"At table!" cried two or three together; "and what if he were?"

"If he be," rejoined the former speaker, "we may go back again for our
pains! I ought to know him well; I was his orderly for eight months, when
I served in the 'Legers,' and can tell you, my lads, I wouldn't be the
officer who would bring him a report, or a return to sign, once he had
opened out his napkin on his knee; and it's not very far from his
dinner-hour now."

What a sudden thrill of hope ran through me! Perhaps I should be spared
for another day.

"No, no, we're all in time," exclaimed the sergeant; "I can see the
general's tent from this; and there he stands, with all his staff around
him."

"Yes; and there go the other escorts--they will be up before us if we don't
make haste; quick-time, lads. Come along, mon cher," said he, addressing
me; "thou'rt not tired, I hope."

"Not tired!" replied I; "but remember, sergeant, what a long journey I
have before me."

"_Pardieu!_ I don't believe all that rhodomontade about another world,"
said he gruffly; "the republic settled that question."

I made no reply. For such words, at such a moment, were the most terrible
of tortures to me. And now we moved on at a brisker pace, and crossing a
little wooden bridge, entered a kind of esplanade of closely-shaven turf,
at one corner of which stood the capacious tent of the commander-in-chief,
for such, in Moreau's absence, was General Berthier. Numbers of
staff-officers were riding about on duty, and a large traveling-carriage,
from which the horses seemed recently detached, stood before the tent.

We halted as we crossed the bridge, while the adjutant advanced to obtain
the signature to the sentence. My eyes followed him till they swam with
rising tears, and I could not wipe them away, as my hands were fettered.
How rapidly did my thoughts travel during those few moments. The good old
Pere Michel came back to me in memory, and I tried to think of the
consolation his presence would have afforded me; but I could do no more
than think of them.

"Which is the prisoner Tiernay?" cried a young aid-de-camp, cantering up
to where I was standing.

"Here, sir," replied the sergeant, pushing me forward.

"So," rejoined the officer, angrily, "this fellow has been writing
letters, it would seem, reflecting upon the justice of his sentence, and
arraigning the conduct of his judges. Your episto