to mention them specially in the surrender.  But the conqueror had no compassion on these little children in uniform, and pronounced them prisoners of war.  Even Liliputian warriors might be dangerous!  Remember the pangs suffered by Gulliver, as, lying quietly on the ground, he was suddenly awakened by a violent discharge poured into him from behind the high grass by the Liliputians.  To be sure their weapons were only armed with needles—­whence we may infer that the Liliputians are the original inventors of the modern Prussian needle-percussion rifles—­but, one can be killed by needle-pricks.  Count De Lacy feared, perhaps, the needle weapons of the little Liliputian cadets, and treated the poor, delicate, tender children as if they were tough old veterans, accustomed to all the hardships and privations of war.  With coarse abuse and blows from the butt of the musket, they were driven out into the highway, and compelled to travel on the soft, muddy roads without cloaks, notwithstanding the severe weather, and only the short jackets of their uniforms.  Heart-rending was the wail of the poor little ones from whom the war had taken their fathers, and poverty their mothers—­torn from their home, the refuge of their orphaned childhood, to be driven like a flock of bleating lambs out into the desert wilderness of life.

And when their feet grew weary, when their little bodies, unaccustomed to fatigue, gave way, they were driven on with blows from sabres and the butts of muskets.  When they begged for a piece of bread, or a drop of water for their parched lips, they were laughed at, and, instead of water, were told to drink their own tears, which ran in streams down their childish cheeks.  They had already marched the whole day without food or refreshment of any kind, and they could hardly drag their bleeding feet along.  With eyes bright with fever, and parched tongues, they still wandered on, looking in the distance for some friendly shelter, some refreshing spring.

At nightfall the little cadets were camped in an open field, on the wet ground.  At first, they begged for a little food, a crust of bread; but when they saw that their sufferings gave pleasure to the dragoons, and that their groans were to them like a pleasant song, they were silent, and the spirit of their fathers reigned uppermost in the breasts of these little, forsaken, trembling lads.  They dried their eyes, and kept their complaints in their little trembling hearts.

“We will not cry any more,” said little Ramin, who though only twelve years of age, was yet the oldest of the captives, and recognized as their captain and leader.  “We will not cry any more, for our tears give pleasure to our enemies.  Let us be cheerful, and that perhaps will vex them.  To spite them, and show how little we think of our hunger, let us sing a jolly song.”

“Come on, let us do it!” cried the boys.  “What song shall we sing?”

“Prince Eugene,” cried young Ramin; and immediately with his childish treble struck up “Prince Eugene, the noble knight.”