Crack—­whing—­g—­g!

“A bullet!”

Yes!  And, prodigy on prodigy, up the hill towards him charged, as he would upon a whole army, a Prussian gendarme, with bayonet fixed.

Tom sat down upon the mountain-side, and burst into inextinguishable laughter, while the gendarme came charging up, right toward his very nose.

But up to his nose he charged not; for his wind was short, and the noise of his roaring went before him.  Moreover, he knew that Tom had a revolver, and was a “mad Englishman.”  Now, he was not afraid of Tom, or of a whole army:  but he was a man of drills and of orders, of rules and of precedents, as a Prussian gendarme ought to be; and for the modes of attacking infantry, cavalry, and artillery, man, woman, and child, thief and poacher, stray pig, or even stray wolf, he had drill and orders sufficient:  but for attacking a Colt’s revolver, none.

Moreover, for arresting all manner of riotous Burschen, drunken boors, French red Republicans, Mazzini-hatted Italian refugees, suspect Polish incendiaries, or other feras naturse, he had precedent and regulation:  but for arresting a mad Englishman, none.  He held fully the opinion of his superiors, that there was no saying what an Englishman might not, could not, and would not do.  He was a sphinx, a chimera, a lunatic broke loose, who took unintelligible delight in getting wet, and dirty, and tired, and starved, and all but lolled; and called the same “taking exercise:”  who would see everything that nobody ever cared to see, and who knew mysteriously everything about everywhere; whose deeds were like his opinions, utterly subversive of all constituted order in heaven and earth; being, probably, the inhabitant of another planet; possibly the man in the moon himself, who had been turned out, having made his native satellite too hot to hold him.  All that was to be done with him was to inquire whether his passport was correct, and then (with a due regard to self-preservation) to endure his vagaries in pitying wonder.

So the gendarme paused panting; and not daring to approach, walked slowly and solemnly round Tom, keeping the point of his bayonet carefully towards him, and roaring at intervals—­

“You have murdered the young man!”

“But I have not!” said Tom.  “Look and see.”

“But I saw him fall!”

“But he has got up again, and run away.”

“So!  Then where is your passport?”

That one other fact cognisable by the mind of a Prussian gendarme, remained as an anchor for his brains under the new and trying circumstances, and he used it.  “Here!” quoth Tom, pulling it out.

The gendarme stepped cautiously forward.

“Don’t be frightened.  I’ll stick it on your bayonet-point;” and suiting the action to the word, Tom caught the bayonet-point, put the passport on it, and pulled out his cigar-case.

“Mad Englishman!” murmured the gendarme.  “So!  The passport is correct.  But der Herr must consider himself under arrest.  Der Herr will give up his death-instrument.”