The two Swiss were indignant at La Cueille’s unreasonable exclamation and even Johannes was furiously angry. A single look at the Walloon, however, explained the cause. During the time they had been planning their escape he had faithfully kept his word and had not tasted a drop of spirits. He had left untouched the rations of gin which in accordance with the rules of the service had been served out to him. Deeming it a pity to leave good spirits unclaimed, he had asked the Colonel’s permission to receive his daily rations and to save them up for use as a liniment for swollen feet. This permission was necessary as the regulations required every soldier to drink his allowance of gin from the hand of the sutler. The Colonel, knowing how well La Cueille liked his drop, suspected that the Walloon wished to accumulate a sufficient quantity for a regular drinking bout, and in the hope of detecting him ordered his feet to be uncovered for examination. They were found to be red and swollen, the result of a ligature which he had purposely placed above the knee. Accordingly his request was granted and he saved all his gin, which by the time it was taken on board the canoe had accumulated to about two pints. On the evening of his escape, while lying down on the boat, he produced the bottle and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls. Oh! that was delicious. How it warmed him! A second draught followed the first. “Train de plaisir de ma bouche à mon estomac,” the Walloon muttered as he began to feel himself in a pleasantly excited condition. What a time they were in getting that coffin on board! He must regale himself while waiting. Then he finished the first bottle. At length the coffin arrived. “Poeah! what an odor! enough to give one the fever! Well, the rich drink champagne as a safeguard; gin may perhaps have the same effect.” So he continued imbibing until he finished the second bottle. When the priestesses arrived the funeral cortege began to move. La Cueille sat looking on, unmoved and perfectly quiet. Trees and shrubs passed by in the midnight gloom like spectres. There stood the dark outlines of the fort. The voice of the sentry was plainly heard, crying the usual “Werda”—“Who goes there?” Presently there came the order to lay to. When the cortege stopped obedient to this command, a sergeant approached to examine the boats, but as soon as he discovered that one of them bore a case of cholera he stepped back frightened and gave the word to proceed. A few more strokes and the vessels had passed the pier. At this point the drunkard could not restrain himself and he burst out with the cry, “Enfoncés les Hollandais, les têtes de fromage!”