y
eyesight long enough to see my home--my wife--my brave boy Victor,
once more! Grant me but that, kind Heaven, and I think I will repine
at nothing that may happen further."

It will be seen from the above, that Francois Bertrand belonged to the
army which had recently covered itself with glory in the Egyptian
campaign, under the command of General Bonaparte, a name already
famous in military annals. He had fought like a hero in the battle of
the Pyramids, when the squares of the French infantry repulsed the
brilliant cavalry of Murad Bey, and destroyed the flower of the
Mamelukes by the deadly fire of their musketry. Wounded in that
memorable battle, he was afterwards attacked by the ophthalmia of the
country; but his eyesight, though impaired, was not yet utterly
destroyed. Honorably discharged, he had just arrived at Marseilles,
from Egypt, and was now on his way home, eager to be folded in the
arms of his beloved wife and his young son. So the soldier toiled
bravely up the hill, for he knew that the white walls of his cottage
and the foliage of his little vineyard would be visible in the valley
commanded by the summit.

At length he reached the brow of the hill, and gazed eagerly in the
direction of his humble home; but O, agony, it was gone! In its place,
a heap of blackened ruins lay smouldering in the sunlight that seemed
to mock its desolation. Fatigue--weakness--were instantly forgotten,
and the soldier rushed down the brow of the hill to the scene of the
disaster. At the gate of his vineyard, he was met by little Victor, a
boy of ten.

"A soldier!" cried the boy, who did not recognize his father. "O sir,
you come back from the wars, don't you? Perhaps you can tell me
something about my poor papa?"

"Victor, my boy, my dear boy! don't you know me?" cried the poor
soldier; and he strained his son convulsively in his arms.

"O, I know you now, my dear, dear papa," said the boy, sobbing. "I
knew you by the voice--but how changed you are! Why, your mustaches
are turned gray."

"Victor, Victor, where is your mother?" gasped the soldier.

"Poor mamma!" said the boy.

"Speak--I charge you, boy."

"She is dead."

"Dead!" Francois fell to the ground as if a bullet had passed through
his brain. When he recovered his senses, he saw Victor kneeling beside
him, and bathing his head with cold water, which he had brought in his
hat from a neighboring spring. In a few words, the child told him
their cottage had