When I entered that street, the sun, a good deal declined, poured straight down it, and I could see two or three groups of not more than two or three persons in each, with the dress of the Republican French soldier conspicuous here and there. I ran on eagerly, and passed three persons all apparently struggling together. One was a woman, another a French soldier, and the third, who had his back toward me, so that I could not see his face, was endeavoring to protect the woman from violence, and seemed to me, in figure, very like Lavater. I should have certainly stopped to aid him; but there was another scene going on a little in advance, which left me no time to think of any thing else; but the moment I had passed, I heard a shot behind me, and then a deep groan. I gave it no thought; for within a stone’s throw I beheld an old man whose face and figure I knew well, brutally assaulted by one of the soldiers, and falling on his knees, under a blow from the butt-end of a musket. The next instant, the soldier—if such a brute deserved the name—drew back the weapon, and ere I could have reached the spot, the bayonet would have been through Father Bonneville’s body. I sent a messenger of swifter pace to stop the deed. In an instant the rifle was at my shoulder, and before I well knew that I touched the trigger, the Frenchman sprang more than a foot from the ground, and fell dead with the ball through his head. I paused not to think—to ask myself what I had done—to consider what it is to take a human life, or to fight against one’s countrymen. I only thought of good, kind, gentle Father Bonneville, and springing forward, I raised him from the ground. He was bleeding from the blow on the forehead, but did not seem much hurt, and only bewildered and confused. “Quick, into the house, good Father,” I cried. “Shut the lower windows and lock the door.” “Oh, my son, my son!” he exclaimed, looking at me wildly, “do not mingle in this strife!” “Lavater is behind,” I said; “I must hasten to help him. Go in, and I will join you in an instant.” “Did you do that?” he inquired, looking at the dead soldier, and then at the rifle in my hand. “I did,” I answered, in a firmer tone than might have been expected, “and he deserved his fate. But go in, dear Father. I will return in a moment.” I led him toward the door as I spoke, and saw him enter the house; and then ran up the street to the spot where I had seen the struggle I have mentioned. Two dead bodies were lying on the pavement. One was that of a young woman of the lower class, fallen partly on her side, with a bayonet-wound in the chest. The other was that of a man dressed in black, who had fallen forward on his face. I turned him over, and beheld the features of Lavater; I took his hand, and the touch showed me that death was there.