the firing line, carrying orders, serving the guns. I have been told that in a battalion, forming under fire with perfect steadiness for the assault of a village, three cases occurred within five minutes at the head of the column; and the attack could not be delivered because the leading companies scattered all over the fields like chaff before the wind.

Sergeant Peter, young as he was, had a great influence over his men. It was said that the number of desertions in the squadron in which he served was less than in any other in the whole of that cavalry division. Such was supposed to be the compelling example of one man’s quiet intrepidity in facing every form of danger and terror.

However that may be, he was liked and trusted generally. When the end came and the remnants of that army corps, hard pressed on all sides, were preparing to cross the Prussian frontier, Sergeant Peter had enough influence to rally round him a score of troopers. He managed to escape, with them, at night, from the hemmed-in army. He led this band through two hundred miles of country covered by numerous Russian detachments and ravaged by the cholera. But this was not to avoid captivity, to go into hiding and try to save themselves. No. He led them into a fortress which was still occupied by the Poles, and where the last stand of the vanquished revolution was to be made.

This looks like mere fanaticism. But fanaticism is human. Man has adored ferocious divinities. There is ferocity in every passion—even in love itself. The religion of undying hope resembles the mad cult of despair, of death, of annihilation. The difference lies in the moral motive springing from the secret needs and the unexpressed aspirations of the believers. It is only to vain men that all is vanity; and all is deception only to those who have never been sincere with themselves.

It was in the fortress that my grandfather found himself together with Sergeant Peter. My grandfather was a neighbour of the S—family in the country, but he had never met Prince Roman, who, however, knew his name perfectly well. The Prince introduced himself one night as they both sat on the ramparts, leaning against a gun-carriage.

The service he wished to ask for was, in case of his being killed, to have the intelligence conveyed to his parents.

They talked in low tones, the other servants of the piece lying about near them. My grandfather gave the required promise, and then asked frankly—for he was greatly interested by the disclosure so unexpectedly made—

‘But tell me, Prince, why this request? Have you any evil forebodings as to yourself?’

‘Not in the least; I was thinking of my people. They have no idea where I am,’ answered Prince Roman. ‘I’ll engage to do as much for you, if you like. It’s certain that half of the garrison at least will be killed before the end, so there’s an even chance of one of us surviving the other.’

My grandfather told him where, as he supposed, his wife and children were then. From that moment till the end of the siege, the two were much together. On the day of the great assault my grandfather received a severe wound. The town was taken. Next day the citadel itself, its hospital full of dead and dying, its magazines empty, its defenders having burnt their last cartridges, opened its gates.

During all the campaign the prince, exposing his person conscientiously on every occasion, had not received a scratch. No one had recognised him, or, at any rate, had betrayed his identity. Till then, as long as he did his duty, it had mattered nothing who he was.

Now, however, the position was changed. As ex-guardsman and as late ordonnance-officer to the Emperor, this rebel ran a serious risk of being given special attention in the shape of a firing squad at ten paces. For more than a month he remained lost in the miserable crowd of prisoners packed in the casemates^*