laimed that feasting was not excluded from the life of a campaign.

As I passed one of these I heard the tones of a voice which, well known,
had somehow not been heard by me for many a day before. Who could it be?
I listened, but in vain. I asked myself whose was it. I dismounted, and
leading my horse by the bridle, passed before the hut. The strong light
of the blazing wood lit up the interior, and showed me a party of
about a dozen officers, seated and lying on a heap of straw, occupied
in discussing a supper, which, however wanting in all the elegancies of
table equipment, even where I stood had a most appetizing odor. Various
drinking vessels, some of them silver, passed from hand to hand
rapidly; and the clinking of cups proclaimed that, although of different
regiments,--as I saw they were,--a kindly feeling united them.

"Well, Francois," said the same voice, whose accents were so familiar to
me without my being able to say why,--"well, Francois, you have not told
us how it happened."

"Easily enough," said another; "he broke my blade in his back, and
gave point afterwards and ran me through the chest." It was the maitre
d'armes of the Fourth, my old antagonist, who said this, and I drew near
to hear the remainder. "You could not call the thing unfair," continued
he; "but, after all, no one ever heard of such a _passe_."

"I could have told you of it, though," rejoined the other; "for I
remember once, in the fencing school at the Polytechnique, I saw him
catch his antagonist's blade in his sleeve, and when he had it secure,
snap it across, and then thrust home with his own. _Parbleu!_ he lost a
coat by it; and I believe, at the time, poor fellow, he could ill spare
it."

This story, which was told of myself, was an incident which occurred in
a school duel, and was only known to two or three others; and again was
I puzzled to think which of my former companions the speaker could be.
My curiosity was now stronger than aught else; and so, affecting to seek
a light for my cigar, I approached the blaze.

"Halloo, Comrade! a cup of wine with you," cried out a voice from
within; "Melniker is no bad drinking--"

"When Chambertin can't be had," said another, handing me a goblet of red
wine.

"_Par Saint Denis!_ it's the very man himself," shouted a third. "Why,
Burke, my old comrade, do you forget Tascher?"

"What!" said I, in amazement, turning from one to the other of the
mustached faces, and unable to discover