ed."

"Not so; it is your fault. You should have fastened your horse securely
to the manger."

"You are right, Mr. Burgomaster, certainly, you are right," said the
soldier, in a still more affable and conciliating voice. "It is not for
a poor devil like me to contradict you. But supposing my horse was
let loose out of pure malice, in order that he might stray into the
menagerie--you will then acknowledge that it was not my fault. That is,
you will acknowledge it if you think fit," hastily added the soldier "I
have no right to dictate to you in anything."

"And why the devil should any one do you this ill-turn?"

"I do not know, Mr. Burgomaster--but--"

"You do not know--well, nor I either," said the burgomaster impatiently.
"Zounds! what a many words about the carcass of an old horse!"

The countenance of the soldier, losing on a sudden its expression of
forced suavity, became once more severe; he answered in a grave voice,
full of emotion: "My horse is dead--he is no more than a carcass--that
is true; but an hour ago, though very old, he was full of life and
intelligence. He neighed joyously at my voice--and, every evening, he
licked the hands of the two poor children, whom he had carried all the
day--as formerly he had carried their mother. Now he will never
carry any one again; they will throw him to the dogs, and all will
be finished. You need not have reminded me harshly of it, Mr.
Burgomaster--for I loved my horse!"

By these words, pronounced with noble and touching simplicity, the
burgomaster was moved in spite of himself, and regretted his hasty
speech. "It is natural that you should be sorry for your horse,"
said he, in a less impatient tone; "but what is to be done?--It is a
misfortune."

"A misfortune?--Yes, Mr. Burgomaster, a very great misfortune. The
girls, who accompany me, were too weak to undertake a long journey on
foot, too poor to travel in a carriage--and yet we have to arrive in
Paris before the month of February. When their mother died, I promised
her to take them to France, for these children have only me to take care
of them."

"You are then their--"

"I am their faithful servant, Mr. Burgomaster; and now that my horse
has been killed, what can I do for them? Come, you are good, you have
perhaps children of your own; if, one day, they should find themselves
in the position of my two little orphans--with no wealth, no resources
in the world, but an old soldier who loves them, and an