THE CONSCRIPT.

In the wars of the great Napoleon, thousands of French soldiers were
raised by conscription,--that is, taken by lot from the working classes.

These conscripts, though they generally made good soldiers, often went
with great unwillingness and even sorrow from their humble homes and
their loved ones, to endure the hardships of weary campaigns, to risk
life and limb in desperate battles, for they scarcely knew what, with
people against whom they had no ill-will.

On a cloudy morning in early May, a company of conscripts were marched
away from a pleasant little hamlet in the South of France. For some
distance on their way they were followed by loving friends, some
weeping and some bravely striving to cheer them up.

At last these fell off, and the conscripts pursued their march in
melancholy silence. On the brow of a hill, their road passed the gates
of an old chateau, the seat of the ancient lords of the manor, the
Counts De Lorme. The present Count, an old man, had lately been
permitted to return from exile in England, to his half-ruined estate;
but, in acknowledgment for this act of clemency, he had felt obliged to
offer to the service of the Emperor his only son, who was now a captain
in the grand army.

Just outside the gates, on this morning, stood Count De Lorme,
evidently awaiting the conscripts. He addressed a few words to the
sergeant, who brought his men to a halt, and called forward one Jean
Moreau, a tall, sturdy young man, with a frank, honest face, now sadly
overcast.

"Well, Jean," said the old nobleman, kindly shaking the conscript's
hand, "you must go, it seems, this time. I am sorry we could not buy
you off again; but you are built of too tempting soldier-stuff to
remain a peaceful village blacksmith."

"Yes, _Monsieur le Comte_," said the sergeant, "it is n't often we find
such stalwart fellows nowadays. The villagers all speak well of him,
and seem to begrudge him even to the Emperor."

"Yes," replied the Count; "Jean is a good boy. I know him well; he was
the foster-brother of my son. Here, Jean, is a letter to the Captain.
You may meet him somewhere. You may possibly serve in the same
regiment. If so, I commend him to you. He is not so strong as you
are, and he is brave to rashness. Watch over him, I pray you."

"Ah, _Monsieur le Comte_, believe me, I would gladly give my life for
dear Captain Henri."

"I _do_ believe you, Jean. Adieu!"

"Adieu!"

Jea