hed, entreated the pardon of
his old friend. "It was no over-haste," cried Vila, "but the most
prudent that could have occurred, I ought to have remained sitting in
the carriage, for my little bit of firing was like a drop in the stream
compared to the bravery of the Camisards; with them none of us can
engage. These knaves understand no reason, whether balls fly, or swords
glitter, it is to them mere pastime, and the smallest boys, who are
scarcely weaned from their mother's breast, are just as much infatuated
with this devilry as any of the oldest grey beards. I have seen that,
for once quite close, which I could not have believed by hearsay; but
now that I have witnessed it, it is enough for the rest of my life."

They stopped at a lonely inn to refresh the horses, and while they were
enjoying their breakfast the doctor proceeded to relate the sequel of
the event to his old friend. "How fortunate." he commenced, "that you
were not present at our battle, for only think, your Edmond continued
to accompany us, he would not be dissuaded from attending in person to
your safety. When the scene now opened he was ever foremost. There was
a young lad, who then came forward. 'From whence come you?' shouted the
Camisards.--'What's that to you,' answered the impudent fellow,--'You
are a traitor.'--'Wherefore insult,' cried the little man, 'honest
people act not thus.'--'Hew him down!' cried another.--'Hew me down;'
said the hop of my thumb, 'when I would sacrifice my life for
you.'--'Who art thou?' was again reiterated.--'My name is Martin,
further it is not necessary for you to know.'--Inquiry was cut short by
firing and hewing down. It came near me, and I felt a goose-skin all
over my body. I had already spent my powder without, perhaps, having
hit any one, when the gigantic Lacoste took compassion on my trouble,
and hewed down the knaves together as if they had been merely poppy
heads. But Edmond who tried to cut his way through to me, got into a
desperate melee. Two dragoons fell upon him, and struck furiously; but
before they were able to hit, behold, my dear friend--the little rascal
Martin, cut down one of them from his horse, and shot the other at the
same moment almost through the breast, as if the urchin had been
accustomed to nothing else all his life long. The stout Lacoste, the
dog as he styles himself, was not tardy either, and your son lost
neither courage nor strength; the Camisards were like so many devils,
and t