“Ma foi!” said one of the dragoons, in a low voice, “I should not be surprised if this were the Père Arsène, who served with the army in Italy. We used to call him 'old Scapulaire'. He was the only priest I ever saw in the van of a brigade. You knew him too, Auguste.”
“Yes, that I did,” replied the other soldier. “I saw him at Elkankah, where one of ours was unhorsed by a Mameluke, spring forward, and seizing a pistol at the holster, shoot the Turk through the head, and then kneel down beside the dying man he was with before, and go on with his prayers. Ventrebleu! that's what I call discipline.”
“Where was that, Comrade?”
“At Elkankah.”
“At Quoreyn, rather, my friend, two leagues to the southward,” whispered a low voice.
“Tonnerre de ciel!” cried the two soldiers in a breath, “it is himself;” for the words were spoken by the priest, who was no other than the Père Arsène they spoke of.
The effort of speech and memory was, however, a mere passing one; for to all their questions he was now deaf, and lay apparently unconscious between them. On me, therefore, they turned their inquiries, but with little more of success; and thus we descended the mountain, eager to reach some place of succor for the good father.
As we approached the village, I was soon made aware of the objects of the party who occupied it. The little street was crowded with cattle, bullocks, and sheep, fast wedged up amid huge wagons of forage and carts of corn; mounted dragoons urging on the jaded animals, regardless of the angry menaces or the impatient appeals incessantly making by the peasantry, who in great numbers had followed their stock from their farms.
