“A prisoner,” cried he, placing a heavy hand upon my shoulder, while with the other he held his drawn sword pointed towards my breast. To draw a pistol from my bosom was the work of a second; and while gently turning the point of his weapon away, I coolly said,-- “Not so fast, my friend, not so fast! The game is in my hands, not yours. I have only to pull this trigger, and my dragoons are upon you; whatever fate befall me, yours is certain.” A half-scornful laugh betrayed the incredulity of him I addressed, while the other, apparently anxious to relieve the awkwardness of the moment, suddenly broke in with,-- “He is right, Auguste, and you are wrong; we are in his power; that is,” added he, smiling, “if he believes there is any triumph in capturing such _pauvres diables_ as ourselves.” The features of him he addressed suddenly lost their scornful expression, and sheathing his sword with an air of almost melodramatic solemnity, he gravely pulled up his mustaches, and after a pause of a few seconds, solemnly ejaculated a malediction upon his fortune. “_C’est toujours ainsi_,” said he, with a bitterness that only a Frenchman can convey when cursing his destiny. “_Soyez bon enfant_, and see what will come of it. Only be good-natured, only be kind, and if you haven’t bad luck at the end of it, it’s only because fortune has a heavier stroke in reserve for you hereafter.” I could not help smiling at the Frenchman’s philosophy, which, assuming as a good augury, he gayly said, “So, then, you’ll not make us prisoners. Isn’t it so?” “Prisoners,” said the other, “nothing of the kind. Come and sup with us; I’ll venture to say our larder is as well stocked as your own; in any case an omelette, a cold chicken, and a glass of champagne are not bad things in our circumstances.” I could not help laughing outright at the strangeness of the proposal. “I fear I must decline,” said I; “you seem to forget I am placed here to watch, not to join you.” “_A la bonne heure_,” cried the younger of the two; “do both. Come along; _soyez bon camarade_; you are always near your own people, so don’t refuse us.” In proportion as I declined, they both became more pressing in their entreaties, and at last, I began to dread lest my refusal might seem to proceed from some fear as to the good faith of the invitation, and I never felt so awkwardly placed as when one plumply pressed me by saying,-- “_Mais pourquoi pas, mon cher?_” I stammered out something about duty and discipline, when they both interrupted me by a long burst of laughter. “Come, come!” said they; “in an hour--in half an hour, if you will--you shall be back with your own people. We’ve had plenty of fighting latterly, and we are likely to have enough in future; we know something of each other by this time in the field; let us see how we get on in the bivouac!” Resolving not to be outdone in generosity, I replied at once, “Here goes, then!”