“And he strewed dead Frenchmen all over Europe,” said the sergeant, “and not one-half of them knew what they were fighting about. What do you think of the retreat from Moscow, my boy?”
“A splendid failure. But the emperor did not know all things. How could he tell what was going to be?”
“I’ll come back to my starting-point,” said the sergeant. “I believe we’re put on this earth—cats and dogs and beasts and men—to be happy. Any one or anything that lifts his hand against his brother throws the whole world out of tune. A man that kills anybody or any creature without cause is a murderer—I don’t care who he is that does it; and that’s the sum of the whole thing, according to me, and I’m not going to say another word. You run home like a good lad, or the wife will be getting worried about you. We’ll talk of these things another time.”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE KING TO THE RESCUE.
On a yellow, dreamy day of late autumn, while the sergeant was strolling through the Fens, he came suddenly upon little Virgie Manning and her nurse.
“Hello, little miss!” said the sergeant. “I haven’t seen you for a long time; but where did you get those flowers? They look like some of the park golden-rod.”
“Yes,” said Virgie in her half-lisping voice; “they are your flowers, Mr. Policeman.”