The corporal stepped forward, and began—
‘We were stationed in detachment on the bank of the Rhine, on the evening of the 23rd——’
‘The Court has too many duties to lose its time for nothing,’ interrupted I. ‘It is all true. I did desert my post, I did disobey orders; and, seeing a weak point in the enemy’s line, attacked and carried it with success. The charge is, therefore, admitted by me, and it only remains for the Court to decide how far a soldier’s zeal for his country may be deserving of punishment. Whatever the result, one thing is perfectly clear, Corporal Gaussin will never be indicted for a similar misdemeanour.’
A murmur of voices and suppressed laughter followed this impertinent and not over-discreet sally of mine, and the president, calling out, ‘Proven by acknowledgment,’ told me to ‘stand by.’ I now fell back to my former place, to be interrogated by my comrades on the result of my examination, and hear their exclamations of surprise and terror at the rashness of my conduct. A little reflection of the circumstances would probably have brought me over to their opinion, and shown me that I had gratuitously thrown away an opportunity of self-defence; but my temper could not brook the indignity of listening to the tiresome accusation and the stupid malevolence of the corporal, whose hatred was excited by the influence I wielded over my comrades.
It was long past noon ere the proceedings terminated, for the list was a full one, and at length the Court rose, apparently not sorry to exchange their tiresome duties for the pleasant offices of the dinner-table. No sentences had been pronounced, but one very striking incident seemed to shadow forth a gloomy future. Three, of whom I was one, were marched off, doubly guarded, before the rest, and confined in separate cells of the ‘Salle,’ where every precaution against escape too plainly showed the importance attached to our safe keeping.
At about eight o’clock, as I was sitting on my bed—if that inclined plane of wood, worn by the form of many a former prisoner, could deserve the name—a sergeant entered with the prison allowance of bread and water. He placed it beside me without speaking, and stood for a few seconds gazing at me.
‘What age art thou, lad?’ said he, in a voice of compassionate interest.
‘Something over fifteen, I believe,’ replied I.
‘Hast father and mother?’
‘Both are dead!’