the stirrup. Driscoll had not
the time to change back to club musket, he used the barrel as such. But
being for the instant alone, he was marked out, and Cossacks and
Dragoons threw themselves upon him and brought him down.

"It _was_ lovely," he muttered under the heap.

They brought him back to the house, swathed in a mesh of lariats. Lopez
awaited them, frothing oaths. Dupin was there too, and he looked an
epicure's satisfaction as they stood his victim against the wall. He did
not regret the incident, since it had turned porridge into so choice a
morsel.

"'Tis you, monsieur," he confessed with rugged grace, "who have honored
us."

"Oh, your grandmother!" said Driscoll.

"Well, be patient. It will be all over in a minute more."

The Tiger was, in fact, ordering the shooting squad, when through the
open door glittering helmets and excited French and clanking sabres
flooded the room. It was still another wondrous uniform for Driscoll,
this of the cuirassiers, with so much of brass, and a queue of horse's
hair, and loose pantaloons that merged into gigantic black boots. In
they strode, an agitated host of bristling moustaches, while outside was
the restless sound of many hard breathed horses. The cuirassiers bore
their wounded leader, and laid him on the iron bed in the room. But the
man struggled to his feet. He called loudly for "Monsieur le Colonel,"
and only by force, though gentle, could they hold him quiet.

"What is it?" responded both Dupin and Lopez.

"I, I mean the American Colonel. He--he----"

"Hello, Mike!" cried Driscoll.

He could not see for the others, nor move, but he recognized the voice
of Michel Ney. He knew, too, that Michel must be the cavalry leader he
had just shot. "Darn it, Mike!" he exclaimed, "I'm sorry! But weren't
there enough of 'em without you?"

"Monsieur Ney," the Tiger interrupted, "let your men tend you here, and
we will be back at once to see what can be done for your hurt. But just
now----"

He signed to Lopez, and Cossacks and Dragoons caught up the prisoner and
started for the door.

"Wait!" Ney moaned feebly.

"Tonnerre, mon prince, your wound must be paid for, first. Hurry there,
Messieurs les Imbeciles!"

"Wait!" Ney gasped. He half raised himself, but sank back with closing
eyes. He made a gesture to his breast. All halted as in the presence of
death.

"Help him, you there!" cried Driscoll. "Open his coat!"

The cuirassiers, eager, awkward nurses, flut