“Parole!” replied the Marshall,—“parole! such a mere lad cannot know the value of his promise.”
A sudden fit of rashness came over me.
“He is a mere boy,” reiterated the Marshall. “No, no—send him to prison;” and he resumed the study of the printed paper he had been reading.
I struck in, impelled by despair, for, young as I was, I knew the character of the man before whom I stood, and I remembered that even a tiger might be checked by a bold front—“I am an Englishman, sir, and incapable of breaking my plighted word.”
He laid down the paper he was reading, and slowly lifted his eyes, and fastened them on me,—“Ha,” said he, “ha—so young—so reckless!”
“Never mind him, Marshal,” said the colonel. “If you will grant him his parole, I.”—“Take it, colonel—take it—take his parole, not to go beyond the ditch.”
“But I decline to give any such promise,” said I, with a hardihood which at the time surprised me, and has always done so.
“Why, my good youth,” said the Marshal in great surprise, “why will you not take advantage of the offer—a kinder one, let me tell you, than I am in the habit of making to an enemy?”
“Simply, sir, because I will endeavour to escape on the very first opportunity.”
“Ha!” said the Marshal once more, “this to my face? Lafontaine,”—; to the aide-de-camp,—“a file of soldiers.” The handsome young officer hesitated hung in the wind, as we say, for a moment—moved, as I imagined, by my extreme youth.