As in these pages I simply intend to say how I came to make the acquaintance of English school-boys, it would be out of place, if not somewhat pretentious, to make use of my recollections of the Franco-Prussian War. Yet I cannot pass over two episodes of those troublous times. * * * * * I was twelve years of age when I struck up a friendship with a young Pole, named Gajeski, who was in the same class with me. We became inseparable chums. Year after year we got promoted at the same time. We took our degrees on the same days, entered the military school in the same year, and received our commissions in the same regiment. We took a small _appartement de garçon_ at Versailles, and I shall never forget the delightful evenings we spent together while in garrison there. He was a splendid violinist, and I was a little of a pianist. Short, fair, and almost beardless, Gajeski was called the "Petit Lieutenant" by the soldiers, who all idolized him. At the battle of Wörth, after holding our ground from nine in the morning till five in the evening, against masses of Prussian troops six times as numerous as our own, we were ordered to charge the enemy, with some other cavalry regiments, in order to protect the retreat of the bulk of the army. A glance at the hill opposite convinced us that we were ordered to go to certain death. My dear friend grasped my hand, as he said with a sad smile: "We shall be lucky if we get our bones out of this, old fellow." Down the hill we went like the wind, through a shower of bullets and _mitraille_. Two minutes later, about two-thirds of the regiment reached the opposite ascent. We were immediately engaged in a desperate hand-to-hand fight. A scene of hellish confusion it was. But there, amidst the awful din of battle, I heard Gajeski's death-cry, as he fell from his horse three or four yards from me, and I saw a horrible gash on his fair young head. The poor boy had paid France for the hospitality she had extended to his father. I fought like a madman, seeing nothing but that dear mutilated face before my eyes. I say "like a madman," for it was not through courage or bravery. In a _mêlée_ you fight like a madman--like a savage. I had no brother, but he had been more than a brother to me. I had had no other companion or friend, but he was a friend of a thousand. Poor fellow! * * * * * I had been in captivity in a stronghold on the Rhine for five months, when the preliminaries of peace were signed between France and Germany in January, 1871, and the French prisoners were sent back to their country. About five hundred of us were embarked at Hamburg on board one of the steamers of the Compagnie Transatlantique, and landed at Cherbourg. Finding myself near home, I immediately asked the general in command of the district for a few days' leave, to go and see my mother.