“Then you admit,” said Lemoine quickly, “that I am technically correct in what I state about the result of such a wound?”

“I admit nothing,” said Dupre.  “I don’t believe you are correct in anything you say about the matter.  I suppose the truth is that no two men die alike under the same circumstances.”

“They do when the heart is touched.”

“What absurd nonsense you talk!  No two men act alike when the heart is touched in love; why then should they when it is touched in death?  Come along to the hotel, and let us stop this idiotic discussion.”

“Ah!” sighed Lemoine, “you will throw your chances away.  You are too careless, Dupre; you do not study enough.  This kind of thing is all well enough in Chili, but it will wreck your chances when you go to Paris.  If you studied more deeply, Dupre, you would take Paris by storm.”

“Thanks,” said Dupre lightly; “but unless the rebels take this city by storm, and that shortly, we may never see Paris again.  To tell the truth, I have no heart for anything but the heroine’s knife.  I am sick and tired of the situation here.”

As Dupre spoke they met a small squad of soldiers coming briskly towards the theatre.  The man in charge evidently recognized them, for saying a word to his men, they instantly surrounded the two actors.  The sergeant touched Lemoine on the shoulder, and said: 

“It is my duty to arrest you, sir.”

“In Heaven’s name, why?” asked Lemoine.

The man did not answer; but a soldier stepped to each side of Lemoine.

“Am I under arrest also?” asked Dupre.

“No.”

“By what authority do you arrest my friend?” inquired Dupre.

“By the President’s order.”

“But where is your authority?  Where are your papers?  Why is this arrest made?”

The sergeant shook his head and said: 

“We have the orders of the President, and that is sufficient for us.  Stand back, please!”

The next instant Dupre found himself alone, with the squad and their prisoner disappearing down a back street.  For a moment he stood there as if dazed, then he turned and ran as fast as he could back to the theatre again, hoping to meet a carriage for hire on the way.  Arriving at the theatre he found the lights out and the manager on the point of leaving.

“Lemoine has been arrested,” he cried; “arrested by a squad of soldiers whom we met, and they said they acted by the order of the President.”

The manager seemed thunderstruck by the intelligence, and gazed helplessly at Dupre.

“What is the charge?” he said at last.

“That I do not know,” answered the actor.  “They simply said they were acting under the President’s orders.”

“This is bad, as bad as can be,” said the manager, looking over his shoulder, and speaking as if in fear.  “Lemoine has been talking recklessly.  I never could get him to realize that he was in Chili, and that he must not be so free in his speech.  He always insisted that this was the nineteenth century, and a man could say what he liked; as if the nineteenth century had anything to do with Chili in its present state.”