It was hardly light before my bugler blew the assembly, and out we trotted on to the plain.  My prisoner was placed on horseback in the very centre of the troops.  It chanced that there was a large tree just out of musket-shot from the main gate of the Abbey, and under this we halted.  Had they opened the great doors in order to attack us, I should have charged home upon them; but, as I had expected, they stood upon the defensive, lining the long wall and pouring down a torrent of hootings and taunts and derisive laughter upon us.  A few fired their muskets, but finding that we were out of reach they soon ceased to waste their powder.  It was the strangest sight to see that mixture of uniforms, French, English, and Portuguese, cavalry, infantry, and artillery, all wagging their heads and shaking their fists at us.

My word, their hubbub soon died away when we opened our ranks, and showed whom we had got in the midst of us!  There was silence for a few seconds, and then such a howl of rage and grief!  I could see some of them dancing like mad-men upon the wall.  He must have been a singular person, this prisoner of ours, to have gained the affection of such a gang.

I had brought a rope from the inn, and we slung it over the lower bough of the tree.

‘You will permit me, monsieur, to undo your collar,’ said Papilette, with mock politeness.

‘If your hands are perfectly clean,’ answered our prisoner, and set the whole half-squadron laughing.

There was another yell from the wall, followed by a profound hush as the noose was tightened round Marshal Millefleurs’ neck.  Then came a shriek from a bugle, the Abbey gates flew open, and three men rushed out waving white cloths in their hands.  Ah, how my heart bounded with joy at the sight of them.  And yet I would not advance an inch to meet them, so that all the eagerness might seem to be upon their side.  I allowed my trumpeter, however, to wave a handkerchief in reply, upon which the three envoys came running towards us.  The Marshal, still pinioned, and with the rope round his neck, sat his horse with a half smile, as one who is slightly bored and yet strives out of courtesy not to show it.  If I were in such a situation I could not wish to carry myself better, and surely I can say no more than that.

They were a singular trio, these ambassadors.  The one was a Portuguese cacadore in his dark uniform, the second a French chasseur in the lightest green, and the third a big English artilleryman in blue and gold.  They saluted, all three, and the Frenchman did the talking.

‘We have thirty-seven English dragoons in our hands,’ said he.  ’We give you our most solemn oath that they shall all hang from the Abbey wall within five minutes of the death of our Marshal.’

‘Thirty-seven!’ I cried.  ‘You have fifty-one.’

‘Fourteen were cut down before they could be secured.’

‘And the officer?’