These words fell one after another, slowly, solemnly, in a sort of inexorable metre, like the blows of an axe upon an oak. And the man, looking at the soldiers, added: "Let it be done." The man on whose jacket hung the shining cross of Saint-Louis bowed his head. At a signal from Count de Boisberthelot, two sailors went below and came back bringing the hammock-shroud; the chaplain, who since they sailed had been at prayer in the officers' quarters, accompanied the two sailors; a sergeant detached twelve marines from the line and arranged them in two files, six by six; the gunner, without uttering a word, placed himself between the two files. The chaplain, crucifix in hand, advanced and stood beside him. "March," said the sergeant. The platoon marched with slow steps to the bow of the vessel. The two sailors, carrying the shroud, followed. A gloomy silence fell over the vessel. A hurricane howled in the distance. A few moments later, a light flashed, a report sounded through the darkness, then all was still, and the sound of a body falling into the sea was heard. The old passenger, still leaning against the mainmast, had crossed his arms, and was buried in thought. Boisberthelot pointed to him with the forefinger of his left hand, and said to La Vieuville in a low voice: "La Vendée has a head." TONTON BY A. CHENEVIERE There are men who seem born to be soldiers. They have the face, the bearing, the gesture, the quality of mind. But there are others who have been forced to become so, in spite of themselves and of the rebellion of reason and the heart, through a rash deed, a disappointment in love, or simply because their destiny demanded it, being sons of soldiers and gentlemen. Such is the case of my friend Captain Robert de X----. And I said to him one summer evening, under the great trees of his terrace, which is washed by the green and sluggish Marne: "Yes, old fellow, you are sensitive. What the deuce would you have done on a campaign where you were obliged to shoot, to strike down with a sabre and to kill? And then, too, you have never fought except against the Arabs, and that is quite another thing." He smiled, a little sadly. His handsome mouth, with its blond mustache, was almost like that of a youth. His blue eyes were dreamy for an instant, then little by little he began to confide to me his thought, his recollections and all that was mystic and poetic in his soldier's heart.