"I ought to examine the documents in the box and find out whether Naundorff is a martyr or a visionary."
But the narrative fascinated him and he resumed:
The aggregate terms of my prison life amount to seventeen years.
I said to Montmorin, as we slackened our speed, in order to find a path which led to an obscure hut wherein we were to pass the night:
"O that I might live among men, daring to breathe! That I might no longer be hunted down as a criminal. Let me cast away the fatal name and obliterate the race forever. Montmorin, renounce political schemes and help me only in this,—to forget the dungeons that have been my dwelling places."
My friend put his arms around me and said: "I promise."
We slept soundly and started the next morning for Prussia, which we safely entered, under passports held by Montmorin. We put up at a small inn, exhausted from our rapid traveling. Just as we were dropping off to sleep, an officer entered, roughly ordering us from bed. He brought orders to arrest us as spies. He delivered us to a detachment of troops pertaining to the division under the command of the Duke of Brunswick.
When we had journeyed a short distance, we were surrounded by a body of French, treble our number, and I viewed a battle, for the first time in my life; by the irony of fate, I stood in ranks opposing my countrymen. Montmorin and I were ordered to fight and we had no choice but that of obeying. Our detachment was overpowered. The enemy cried, "No quarter!" Montmorin's horse was better than mine.
"Change with me!" he cried. I could not reply, for we all fell back together. My noble friend placed himself before me and sought to ward off the sabre-strokes. My horse fell pierced by a bullet and I could not extricate myself. Montmorin stooped to disentangle my foot and a French soldier with a tremendous blow cut his head in twain. Another sabre descended on my neck and I lost consciousness.
I awoke in a hospital, amid the fearful groans of the other wounded. Thérèse, does not my narrative seem destitute of those shades of gay and grave intermingled which constitute the charm of a personal history? Do you not long for a comic foil to this interminable tragedy? I shall abridge and hurry on.