the rascals were lying all round in the yellow glare, so that the scene looked like one of those pictures which Junot stole out of Madrid.  There are some soldiers who profess to care nothing for art and the like, but I have always been drawn towards it myself, in which respect I show my good taste and my breeding.  I remember, for example, that when Lefebvre was selling the plunder after the fall of Danzig, I bought a very fine picture, called ‘Nymphs Surprised in a Wood,’ and I carried it with me through two campaigns, until my charger had the misfortune to put his hoof through it.

I only tell you this, however, to show you that I was never a mere rough soldier like Rapp or Ney.  As I lay in that brigands’ camp, I had little time or inclination to think about such matters.  They had thrown me down under a tree, the three villains squatting round and smoking their cigarettes within hands’ touch of me.  What to do I could not imagine.  In my whole career I do not suppose that I have ten times been in as hopeless a situation.  ‘But courage,’ thought I.  ’Courage, my brave boy!  You were not made a Colonel of Hussars at twenty-eight because you could dance a cotillon.  You are a picked man, Etienne; a man who has come through more than two hundred affairs, and this little one is surely not going to be the last.’  I began eagerly to glance about for some chance of escape, and as I did so I saw something which filled me with great astonishment.

I have already told you that a large fire was burning in the centre of the glade.  What with its glare, and what with the moonlight, everything was as clear as possible.  On the other side of the glade there was a single tall fir-tree which attracted my attention because its trunk and lower branches were discoloured, as if a large fire had recently been lit underneath it.  A clump of bushes grew in front of it which concealed the base.  Well, as I looked towards it, I was surprised to see projecting above the bush, and fastened apparently to the tree, a pair of fine riding boots with the toes upwards.  At first I thought that they were tied there, but as I looked harder I saw that they were secured by a great nail which was hammered through the foot of each.  And then, suddenly, with a thrill of horror, I understood that these were not empty boots; and moving my head a little to the right, I was able to see who it was that had been fastened there, and why a fire had been lit beneath the tree.  It is not pleasant to speak or to think of horrors, my friends, and I do not wish to give any of you bad dreams tonight—­but I cannot take you among the Spanish guerillas without showing you what kind of men they were, and the sort of warfare that they waged.  I will only say that I understood why Monsieur Vidal’s horse was waiting masterless in the grove, and that I hoped he had met this terrible fate with sprightliness and courage, as a good Frenchman ought.