“A kinsman is part of a man’s body, of his heart, but a foster-brother is a piece of his heart.” Waverley.
Those who have been familiarized with warfare, know well, from personal experience, how callous it renders the heart to human suffering. To me these scenes were new—and to witness my fellow-men coolly hurried to eternity, without even the mockery of a trial, had occasioned a sensation too painful and powerful to be overcome. When, therefore, Colonel La Coste and his officers sate down to breakfast, I felt mine, indeed, to be a sorry appetite. The dead guerillas in the courtyard were still before my eyes, and men with whom, in the full pride of youth and health, I had taken my evening meal last night, were now “stark and stiff;” and my morning repast was to be shared with their executioners. I could not forget them; they rose to my imagination like Banquo’s ghost, and completely marred my appetite.
Colonel La Coste, who in his own rough way had played the part of a kindly host, guessed the cause of my depression, and endeavoured to remove it. He had been three years a prisoner in England, and spoke our language tolerably.
“Come, my young friend,” he said, “courage!—‘Tis but the chance of war, and thy thraldom may be short. Think not that Frenchmen do not respect those to whom they are opposed; and while a stern necessity renders example indispensable, they know how to distinguish between the brigand and the soldier. Eat, and muster thy philosophy. When but a little older than thyself, I underwent a protracted captivity—Did I sink into despair? No, faith! A sous-lieutenant, without friends or money, I taxed my wits to make a stand against misfortune—ay, and I succeeded, too. There is in England many a tooth-pick case, the handywork of Colonel La Coste, to which tooth-picks and their cases, the said colonel has been often indebted for a dinner. Think not, that because I inflict just punishment upon brigands, I cannot pay due respect to a fellow-soldier in misfortune. Give me your parole—and, while with us, you shall be a captive but in name.”
“I thank you, sir,” I answered, “but when a hope of deliverance remains, I never will, by a solemn promise, rivet the chain that binds me. I know all chances of escape are desperate, and, without even having seen an army in the field, that I shall be transferred to the hopeless bondage of some inland fortress. I will give no parole, and if fortune favour me, I will be free, or——”
“So—I understand you! Well, try your chances, and let me take care to mar them. Your parole once given, Mr. O’Halloran, no officer of this detachment should have been more at liberty than yourself; but as it is refused, you will excuse me in treating you as I should the commonest prisoner.—No matter, we understand each other perfectly. You have been candid, and I forewarned. Have I your parole while we continue here—here, in this posada?”
“Certainly.”
“And you will not attempt escape?”
“No; even though my good friend, the Empecinado, beat up your quarters, my dear colonel.”
“Well, to breakfast now. Durimel?” he said, turning to his aide-de-camp, “this gentleman is under no restraint; and while we remain in the village, the gates are open to him.”