* * * * *

On the 19th of July, 1870, my regiment left Versailles for the Eastern
frontier.

As in these pages I simply intend to say how I came to make the
acquaintance of English school-boys, it would be out of place, if not
somewhat pretentious, to make use of my recollections of the
Franco-Prussian War.

Yet I cannot pass over two episodes of those troublous times.

* * * * *

I was twelve years of age when I struck up a friendship with a young
Pole, named Gajeski, who was in the same class with me. We became
inseparable chums. Year after year we got promoted at the same time. We
took our degrees on the same days, entered the military school in the
same year, and received our commissions in the same regiment.

We took a small _appartement de garcon_ at Versailles, and I shall
never forget the delightful evenings we spent together while in
garrison there. He was a splendid violinist, and I was a little of a
pianist.

Short, fair, and almost beardless, Gajeski was called the "Petit
Lieutenant" by the soldiers, who all idolized him.

At the battle of Woerth, after holding our ground from nine in the
morning till five in the evening, against masses of Prussian troops six
times as numerous as our own, we were ordered to charge the enemy, with
some other cavalry regiments, in order to protect the retreat of the
bulk of the army.

A glance at the hill opposite convinced us that we were ordered to go
to certain death.

My dear friend grasped my hand, as he said with a sad smile: "We shall
be lucky if we get our bones out of this, old fellow."

Down the hill we went like the wind, through a shower of bullets and
_mitraille_. Two minutes later, about two-thirds of the regiment
reached the opposite ascent. We were immediately engaged in a desperate
hand-to-hand fight. A scene of hellish confusion it was. But there,
amidst the awful din of battle, I heard Gajeski's death-cry, as he fell
from his horse three or four yards from me, and I saw a horrible gash
on his fair young head.

The poor boy had paid France for the hospitality she had extended to
his father.

I fought like a madman, seeing nothing but that dear mutilated face
before my eyes. I say "like a madman," for it was not through courage
or bravery. In a _melee_ you fight like a madman--like a savage.

I had no brother, but he had been more than a brother to me. I had had
no other comp