aved. But that would have been a small
matter to Napoleon.

The war was ended. That long, weary war--so wanton, so unnecessary, save
for Europe's liberty, and England's existence--that had left its trail of
blood almost everywhere, and desolated so many thousands of homes, was
ended.

To many and many a poor prisoner, the year 1814 must have been like the
blessed year of jubilee. Two hundred thousand Frenchmen were set free in
Russia alone: but they had not been in confinement for very long. In
continental countries there must have been many more. Some fifty
thousand were located in various parts of England and Scotland, of whom a
large number had been imprisoned for several years, and they were no
doubt the most joyous of all.

But it must have been anything but an easy matter even to get rid of such
numbers of men, all in a state of more or less excitement, intoxicated
with a sense of newly gained liberty. Without proper precautions an
emancipation on so large a scale would have led to much disorder, at
least in the neighbourhood where prisoners had been confined. To avoid
this they were marched off in detachments to the sea-coast, where ships
were ordered to attend and embark them for conveyance to their own dear
France.

Such necessary arrangements of course took time, and it was not until
August that the last batch of prisoners left Norman Cross.

Of course, the poor fellows were aware of the great change in their
condition that was coming by what they gathered from the current news of
the day; yet, whenever the actual proclamation of liberty reached them,
we can but faintly imagine the delirium of excitement that followed.
Then, in the place where for so many years the sighing of the prisoners
had been heard, mingled, it might be, with the sound of revelry, in which
the wretched tried to drown their misery, pealed forth the shouts of
those who sang for very joy and gladness of heart.

Poivre was still among them. That man of the revolution, like many
others of the older prisoners, had learned something by his captivity. He
used to think, and with too much reason, that the rich and high-born were
the vultures that preyed on the poor; but now he had discovered that one
risen from the ranks might be as heartless and oppressive as "Monsieur"
of old, and be utterly indifferent how many lives were lost, and how many
imprisoned for years, to gain his own selfish ends.

They were sitting together at suppe