In Alsace he worked and slaved to chop up a poor peasant woman’s wood-pile—just to show her a Hollander could keep his word.
He was shot through the lungs and taken to the hospital. Months later, reporting at the depot, he was informed that he was dead.
When on convalescence in Paris, living on one meal per day, he met one of France’s most accomplished and wealthy daughters. He is now her acknowledged suitor.
Seeing him in prison one day, I asked,—
“What are you in for?”
“Nothing.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, a friend in London asked me why I did not write about Legion life, and I responded,—‘My dear fellow, if I wrote you all I know about the Legion, it would make your hair stand on end!’”
Sorenson, a Dane, from Schleswig-Holstein, formerly a policeman at St. Thomas, Danish West Indies. He came to me holding a letter in his hand and said,—
“Just see here what those swine have done—they have fined my mother a hundred marks because she gave a crust of bread to a French prisoner.”