eet, still
followed by my dog. Contrary to his habit, and as if he understood the
danger, he gave a low whine instead of his usual savage growl. I climbed
into a fig tree the branches of which overhung the street, and, hidden by
the leaves, and resting my hands on the top of the wall, I leaned far
enough forward to see what the men were about.

They were still on the same spot, but there was a change in their
positions. The prisoner was now kneeling with clasped hands before the
cut-throats, begging for his life for the sake of his wife and children,
in heartrending accents, to which his executioners replied in mocking
tones, "We have got you at last into our hands, have we? You dog of a
Bonapartist, why do you not call on your emperor to come and help you out
of this scrape?" The unfortunate man's entreaties became more pitiful and
their mocking replies more pitiless. They levelled their muskets at him
several times, and then lowered them, saying; "Devil take it, we won't
shoot yet; let us give him time to see death coming," till at last the
poor wretch, seeing there was no hope of mercy, begged to be put out of
his misery.

Drops of sweat stood on my forehead. I felt my pockets to see if I had
nothing on me which I could use as a weapon, but I had not even a knife.
I looked at my dog; he was lying flat at the foot of the tree, and
appeared to be a prey to the most abject terror. The prisoner continued
his supplications, and the assassins their threats and mockery. I
climbed quietly down out of the fig tree, intending to fetch my pistols.
My dog followed me with his eyes, which seemed to be the only living
things about him. Just as my foot touched the ground a double report
rang out, and my dog gave a plaintive and prolonged howl. Feeling that
all was over, and that no weapons could be of any use, I climbed up again
into my perch and looked out. The poor wretch was lying face downwards
writhing in his blood; the assassins were reloading their muskets as they
walked away.

Being anxious to see if it was too late to help the man whom I had not
been able to save, I went out into the street and bent over him. He was
bloody, disfigured, dying, but was yet alive, uttering dismal groans. I
tried to lift him up, but soon saw that the wounds which he had received
from bullets fired at close range were both mortal, one being in the
head, and the other in the loins. Just then a patrol, of the National
Guard turned