Some cried: “He is a sacré Prussien! See his yellow hair!”
“No; I am an English artist,” shouted my friend, still smiling.
“He is a confounded spy! Take him to the Seine! duck him in the river!”
They dragged him towards the river-bank. Out of his eye corners my friend saw several boys pick up stones to help him to sink. He thought his last hour was come. They were close to the river: the water looked very cold. Then there came to his ears the “tuck” of a drum. A company of French soldiers was marching by; a Colonel on horseback rode beside them.
The artist recognized him, for they had once chummed together near Metz. He called to him by name, and the Colonel cried “Halt!”
He spurred his horse through the evil-smelling crowd, and seeing who it was whom the rascals were going to plunge into the Seine, held up his hand and cried:
“Let that English gentleman go. He is no Prussian, but an artist who has drawn my portrait—mine, I tell you—for the London journals. He is my friend—an English friend, like Mr. Wallace.”
This testimony was enough for them. The excitable crowd flew to the opposite extreme. Those who had made ready to stone him like a water-rat now dropped those stones, and rushing up with remorse and even affection in their changed looks, threw fusty arms round his neck, kissed him on both cheeks, sobbed and cried for forgiveness for their little mistake.
Indeed it is not safe to enter too soon into a conquered city.
From “My Experiences of the War,” by Archibald Forbes. With the kind permission of Messrs. Hurst and Blackett.