were tough old
veterans, accustomed to all the hardships and privations of war. With
coarse abuse and blows from the butt of the musket, they were driven
out into the highway, and compelled to travel on the soft, muddy roads
without cloaks, notwithstanding the severe weather, and only the short
jackets of their uniforms. Heart-rending was the wail of the poor
little ones from whom the war had taken their fathers, and poverty
their mothers--torn from their home, the refuge of their orphaned
childhood, to be driven like a flock of bleating lambs out into the
desert wilderness of life.

And when their feet grew weary, when their little bodies, unaccustomed
to fatigue, gave way, they were driven on with blows from sabres and
the butts of muskets. When they begged for a piece of bread, or a drop
of water for their parched lips, they were laughed at, and, instead of
water, were told to drink their own tears, which ran in streams down
their childish cheeks. They had already marched the whole day without
food or refreshment of any kind, and they could hardly drag their
bleeding feet along. With eyes bright with fever, and parched tongues,
they still wandered on, looking in the distance for some friendly
shelter, some refreshing spring.

At nightfall the little cadets were camped in an open field, on the
wet ground. At first, they begged for a little food, a crust of bread;
but when they saw that their sufferings gave pleasure to the dragoons,
and that their groans were to them like a pleasant song, they were
silent, and the spirit of their fathers reigned uppermost in the
breasts of these little, forsaken, trembling lads. They dried their
eyes, and kept their complaints in their little trembling hearts.

"We will not cry any more," said little Ramin, who though only twelve
years of age, was yet the oldest of the captives, and recognized as
their captain and leader. "We will not cry any more, for our tears
give pleasure to our enemies. Let us be cheerful, and that perhaps
will vex them. To spite them, and show how little we think of our
hunger, let us sing a jolly song."

"Come on, let us do it!" cried the boys. "What song shall we sing?"

"_Prince Eugene_," cried young Ramin; and immediately with his
childish treble struck up "Prince Eugene, the noble knight."

And all the lads joined in with a sort of desperate enthusiasm, and
the song of the noble knight rose from their young lips like a peal of
rejoicing.

But grad