of those vehicles of death, he exclaimed “Amalia!  O, my Amalia!” The cart was already within a few feet of the scaffold when I gave the word to my troopers.  The brave fellows answered my “Forward!” with a shout, charged sabre in hand, and in an instant had thrown themselves between the victims and the scaffold.  Their escort, taken completely by surprise, was broken at the first shock; we dashed without loss of time on the squadrons scattered round the market, and swept it clear of them.  Surprised, intoxicated, and unacquainted with our force—­which they probably thought to be the advance of the whole Prussian cavalry—­after having lost many men, for the peasantry showed no mercy on the dismounted, the regiment turned at full gallop to the open country.  The townspeople now performed their part.  The victims were hurried away by their families, among a storm of lamentations and rejoicings, tears and kisses.  The old noble’s daughter, half dead, was carried off in her father’s arms, with a thousand benedictions on me.  The guillotine was hewn down with a hundred axes, and I saw the fragments burning in the square.  Its waggon was made to serve its country as a portion of a barricade; and with every vehicle, wheeled or unwheeled, which could be rolled out, the entrance to the streets was fortified with the national rapidity in any deed, good or ill, under the stars.

After having appeased our hunger and that of our famishing horses, and being offered all the purses, which the French dragoons, however, had lightened nearly to the last coin, we finished the exploit by a general chant in honour of the ladies, and marched on our route, followed by the prayers of the whole community.  This ended the only productive skirmish of the retreat.  It fed us, broke the monotony of the march, and gave us something to talk of—­and the soldier asks but little more.  A gallant action had certainly been done; not the less gallant for its being a humane one; and even my bold hulans gave me credit for being a “smart officer,” a title of no slight value in their dashing service.

Yet what, as the poet Saadi says, is fortune but a peacock “a showy tail on a frightful pair of legs?” Our triumph was to be followed by a reverse.  The burgundy and champagne of the old count’s cellar had made us festive, and our voices were heard along the road with a gaiety imprudent in a hostile land.  The sound of a trumpet in our front brought us to our senses and a dead stand.  But we were in a vein of heroism and instead of taking to our old hussar habits, and slipping round the enemy’s flanks, we determined to cut our way through them, if they had the whole cavalry of France as their appui.  The word was given, and the spur carried us through a strong line of cavalry posted across the road.  The moon had just risen enough to show that there was a still stronger line a few hundred yards beyond, which it would be folly to touch.  There was now no resource but to return as we went, which we did