As escape was totally out of the question, I threw myself upon the last resource of the injured. I fell back upon eloquence. I really wish I could remember even faintly the outline of my discourse; for though not by any means a fluent German, the indignation that makes men poets converted me into a greater master of prose, and I told them a vast number of curious, but not complimentary, traits of the land they belonged to. I gave, too, a rapid historical sketch of their campaigns against the French, showing how they were always beaten, the only novelty being whether they ran away or capitulated. I reminded them that the victory over _me_ would resound through Europe, being the only successful achievement of their arms for the last half-century. I expressed a fervent hope that the corporal would be decorated with the “Maria Theresa,” and his companion obtain the “valor medal,” for what they had done. Pensions, I hinted, were difficult in the present state of their finances, but rank and honor certainly ought to await them. I don't know at what exact period of my peroration it was that I was literally “pulled up,” each of the horsemen holding a line fastened to my wrists, and giving me a drag forward that nearly carried me off my feet, and flat on my face. I stumbled, but recovered myself; and now saw that, bound as I was, with a gendarme on each side of me, it required all the activity I could muster, to keep my legs. Another whispered conversation here took place across me, and I thought I heard the words Bregenz and Feldkirch interchanged, giving me to surmise that they were discussing to which place they should repair. My faint hope of returning to the former town was, however, soon extinguished, as the corporal, turning to me, said, “Our orders are to bring you alive to headquarters. We 'll do our best; but if, in crossing these torrents, you prefer to be drowned, it's no fault of ours.” “Do you mean by that,” cried I, “that I am to be dragged through the water in this fashion?” “I mean that you are to come along as best you may.” “It is all worthy of you, quite worthy!” screamed I, in a voice of wildest rage. “You reserve all your bravery for those who cannot resist you,--and you are right, for they are your only successes. The Turks beat you”--here they chucked me close up, and dashed into the stream. “The Prussians beat you!” I was now up to my waist in water. “The Swiss beat you!” Down I went over head and ears. “The French always--thrashed you”--down again--“at Ulm--Auster--litz--Aspern”--nearly suffocated, I yelled out, “Wagrara!”--and down I went, never to know any further consciousness till I felt myself lying on the soaked and muddy road, and heard a gruff voice saying, “Come along--we don't intend to pass the night here!” CHAPTER XLI. THE ACT OF ACCUSATION