and swore they would have four
meals of meat a day, wax-candles in the casemates, and their porter.
These demands were laughed at: the priests even called upon them to fast
on Fridays; on which a general mutiny broke out in the regiment; and
they would have had a FOURTH standard raised before Paris--viz., that
of England--but the garrison proving too strong for them, they were
compelled to lay down their sticks; and, in consideration of past
services, were permitted to leave the forts. 'Twas well for them! as you
shall hear.

The Prince of Ballybunion and the Irish force were quartered in the fort
which, in compliment to them, was called Fort Potato, and where they
made themselves as comfortable as circumstances would admit. The Princes
had as much brandy as they liked, and passed their time on the ramparts
playing at dice, or pitch-and-toss (with the halfpenny that one of
them somehow had) for vast sums of money, for which they gave their
notes-of-hand. The warriors of their legion would stand round delighted;
and it was, "Musha, Master Dan, but that's a good throw!" "Good luck to
you, Misther Pat, and throw thirteen this time!" and so forth. But this
sort of inaction could not last long. They had heard of the treasures
amassed in the palace of the Tuileries: they sighed when they thought
of the lack of bullion in their green and beautiful country. They panted
for war! They formed their plan.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE BATTLE OF THE FORTS.

On the morning of the 26th October, 1884, as his Majesty Louis Philippe
was at breakfast reading the Debats newspaper, and wishing that what
the journal said about "Cholera Morbus in the Camp of the
Pretender Henri,"--"Chicken-pox raging in the Forts of the Traitor
Bonaparte,"--might be true, what was his surprise to hear the report
of a gun; and at the same instant--whiz! came an eighty-four-pound ball
through the window and took off the head of the faithful Monsieur de
Montalivet, who was coming in with a plate of muffins.

"Three francs for the window," said the monarch; "and the muffins of
course spoiled!" and he sat down to breakfast very peevishly. Ah, King
Louis Philippe, that shot cost thee more than a window-pane--more than
a plate of muffins--it cost thee a fair kingdom and fifty millions of
tax-payers.

The shot had been fired from Fort Potato. "Gracious heavens!" said the
commander of the place to the Irish Prince, in a fury, "What has your
Highness done?" "Faix," r