ivility, and the moment after was seated on
the grass beside Mademoiselle Annette, discussing my supper with the
appetite of a man whose sorrows were far inferior to his hunger.

As the moon rose, the party, who evidently had been waiting for some
others they expected, made preparations for continuing their journey,
the first of which consisted in changing the corporal's pack and
equipments to the back of my English thoroughbred, his own meagre
and raw-boned quadruped being destined for me. Up to this instant the
thought of escape had never left my mind. I knew I could calculate on
the speed of my horse; I had had some trials of his endurance, and the
only thing was to obtain such a start as might carry me out of bullet
range at once, and all was safe. Now this last hope deserted me, as I
beheld the miserable hack to which I was condemned; and yet, poignant
as this feeling was--shall I confess it?--it was inferior in its pain
to the sensation I experienced as I saw the rude French soldier, with
clumsy jack-boots and heavy hand, curvetting about upon my mettlesome
charger, and exhibiting his paces for the amusement of his companions.

The order was now given to mount, and I took my place in the middle
file--the dragoons on either side of me having unslung their carbines,
and given me laughingly to understand that I was to be made a riddle of
if I attempted an escape.

The long months of captivity that followed have, somehow, I cannot at
all explain why, left no such deep impression on my mind as the simple
events of that night. I remember it still like a thing of yesterday. We
travelled along the crest of a mountain, the valley lying in deep, dark
shadow beneath; the moon shone brightly out upon the grey granite
rocks beside us; our pace was sometimes pushed to a fast trot, and then
relaxed to a walk, the better, as it appeared to me, to indulge the
conversational tastes of my escort than for any other reason. Their
spirits never flagged for a moment; some jest or story was ever going
forward--some anecdote of the campaign, or some love adventure, of which
the narrator was the hero, commented on by all in turn with a degree
of sharp wit and ready repartee that greatly surprised me. In all
these narratives Mademoiselle played a prominent part, being invariably
referred to for any explanation which the difficulties of female
character seemed to require, her opinion on such points being always
regarded as conclusive. At t