ounted Arabs, ever
prowling around them. To protect themselves from assault, and to avenge
attacks, they fired villages, and burned the fields of grain, and with
bestial fury pursued shrieking maids and matrons. Such deeds almost
invariably attend the progress of an army, for an army is ever the resort
and the congenial home of the moral dregs of creation. Napoleon must at
times have been horror-stricken in contemplating the infernal
instrumentality which he was using for the accomplishment of his purposes.
The only excuse which can be offered for him is, that it was then as now,
the prevalent conviction of the world that war, with all its inevitable
abominations, is a necessary evil. The soldiers were glad to be fired upon
from a house, for it furnished them with an excuse for rushing in, and
perpetrating deeds of atrocious violence in its secret chambers.

Those infected by the plague accompanied the army at some distance from
the main body. Their encampment was always separated from the bivouacs of
the troops, and was with terror avoided by those soldiers who, without the
tremor of a nerve, could storm a battery. Napoleon, however, always
pitched his tent by their side. Every night he visited them to see if
their wants were attended to. And every morning he was present, with
parental kindness, to see them file off at the moment of departure. Such
tenderness, at the hands of one who was filling the world with his renown,
won the hearts of the soldiers. He merited their love. Even to the present
day the scarred and mutilated victims of these wars, still lingering in
the Hotel des Invalides at Paris, will flame with enthusiastic admiration
at the very mention of the name of Napoleon. There is no man, living or
dead, who at the present moment is the object of such enthusiastic love as
Napoleon Bonaparte. And they who knew him the best love him the most.

One day, on their return, an Arab tribe came to meet him, to show their
respect and to offer their services as guides. The son of the chief of the
tribe, a little boy about twelve years of age, was mounted on a dromedary,
riding by the side of Napoleon, and chatting with great familiarity.
"Sultan Kebir," said the young Arab to Napoleon, "I could give you good
advice, now that you are returning to Cairo." "Well! speak, my friend,"
said Napoleon; "if your advice is good I will follow it." "I will tell you
what I would do, were I in your place," the young chief rejoined. "A