After the battle, the chevalier and his ghostly friend, the late canon of Notre Dame de Paris, were deemed such desperate characters that their paroles were not accepted, and they were placed in a secluded house with the other prisoners, under a guard of Keith's Highlanders, commanded by Captain Fotheringham, of Powrie, an officer who had covered himself with distinction in the late battle. There they remained for some time without Maréchal Broglio, who was probably but too glad to be rid of them, making the least effort for their ransom or exchange, until Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick, to whom a report was made on the subject, declared "that to supply such fellows with rations was simply feeding what ought to be hanged." In an evil moment over their cups, the chaplain informed the chevalier that he had, concealed about him, notes and gold to the value of fifty thousand francs, the plunder of various persons and places. "Fifty thousand francs!" said the chevalier; "_mordieu!_ with that sum I should soon gild over the most watchful eyes and achieve my liberty." This thought haunted him day and night, and with one so unscrupulous the sequel may easily be guessed. One night the chaplain was roughly wakened by a hand being heavily laid on his throat, and he found a masked man standing over him, armed with a bayonet, and commanding him to yield his ill-gotten wealth on pain of instant death! A loud cry, cut short by a death-stab in the throat followed, and, in less than a minute, the chevalier found himself a prisoner in the hands of the startled quarter-guard, beside the dead body of his comrade and with a blood-dripping bayonet, as a terrible testimony against him. A court-martial next day made short work with him, and he was sentenced to death--a doom which he met with the most singular coolness and contempt. His fate was announced to him at night, and he was chained to a tree lest he should escape before _reveille_ next morning, when the sentence was to be put in execution. He conversed with his guards, smoked, laughed and sang catches, and was provokingly cool and gay to the last. On perceiving his old brother student, Robertson, loitering near him, he said, "You have the odds of me to-night, _mon ami_; but a Prussian bullet ere long may, perhaps, enable you to overtake me _en route_ to the infernal regions." "Be thankful, chevalier, that you end your life in camp, and not in Paris," replied the Mousquetaire, quietly. "Wherefore?" "Because a soldier's death and a soldier's grave are a better fate than a felon's on the dissecting-table." "Perhaps so--_peste!_ unpleasant thought to have a parcel of medical _gamins_ amusing themselves with one's intestines and arteries." "Think, sir," said Allen, gravely and with pity, "you are to die to-morrow morning." "Better then, than to-morrow night, if it is to be. _Allons!_ comrade, another light; for, _sang Dieu!_ my pipe has gone out!" So passed his last night on earth.