My prospect was now black enough, for justice was a word unheard of in the present condition of things; and my plea of being an Englishman, and in the civil service of my country, would have been a death-warrant.  I must acknowledge, too, that I had fairly thrown it away by my adoption of the Prussian sabre.  I might well be now in low spirits; for the guillotine was crushing out life at that moment in every province of France, and the thirst of public curiosity was to be fed by nothing but blood.  Yet, even in that moment, let me give myself credit for the recollection, my first enquiry was for the fate of my squadron.  The old woman could tell me but little on the subject; but that little was consolatory.  The French troopers, who had come back triumphing into the town, had not brought any Prussian prisoners:  two or three foreigners, who had lost their horses, were sheltered in her master’s stables until they could make their escape; and of them she had heard no more.  The truth is, that nothing is more difficult in war than to catch a hussar who understands his business; and the probability was, that the chief part of them had slipped away, leaving the French to sabre each other in the dark.  The fall of my horse had brought me down, otherwise I might have escaped the shot which stunned me, and been at that hour galloping to Berlin.

Monsieur Gilet, with some of the civic authorities, paid me a second visit in the evening, to prepare me for my journey.  To me it was become indifferent whether I died in the carriage or by the edge of the guillotine; the journey was short in either case, and the shorter and sooner the better.  I answered none of their interrogatories; told them I was at their disposal; directed the old woman to pack up whatever travelling matters remained to me, and to remember me to her master and mistress, if she ever should see them in this world; shook her strong old hand, and bade God bless her.  In return, she kissed me on both cheeks, whispered a thousand benedictions, and left the room violently sobbing; yet with a parting glance at Monsieur Gilet and his collaborateurs, so mingled of wrath and ridicule, that it was beyond all my deciphering.

  “Time and the hour run through the longest day,”

says the great poet; and, with the coming of midnight, a chaise de poste drew up at the door.  As I was a prisoner of importance, M. Gilet was not suffered to take all the honour of my introduction to the axe on himself; and the mayor and deputy-mayor of the district insisted on this opportunity of making themselves known to the supreme Republic.  They mounted the box in front, a couple of gendarmes sat behind, M. Gilet took his seat at my side, and, with an infinite cracking of whips, we rushed out upon the causeway.

I soon discovered that my companion was by no means satisfied with existing circumstances.  The officiousness of the pair of mayors prodigiously displeased him.  He broke forth—­