Next day, the American volunteers assembled at No. 11 Rue de Valois, and had breakfast through the courtesy of M. Georges Casmeze at the Café de la Regence. Starting out from the Palace Royale in the Latin Quarter, that corner of old Paris where, in by-gone days, Camille Desmoulins jumped on a chair and made the speech that started the French Revolution, these latter day revolters against the “Divine Right of Kings” and absolute monarchism began the greatest venture the world has ever known. The volunteers marched through the Place de l’Opera, Phelizot carrying high and proudly the Stars and Stripes, which received a great ovation en route. Thence to the Gare St. Lazare, to Rouen, where they met retreating English soldiers, many wounded and utterly exhausted. Thence to Toulouse, whence, after a very brief training, they were sent to the front. February, 1915, in the village of repose there occurred one of those lamentable misunderstandings, which, in spite of official far-sightedness, occasionally happen in the best regulated organizations. Begun in fun, it ended in death, and almost started a civil war between volunteers and Legionnaires. A little New Yorker commenced to chaff and jolly a big, burly Arab, who, not understanding American methods of joshing, thought the little fellow was desperately in earnest; and, of course, he got angry, as he was expected to. What the Arab intended to reply was that he could whip two men like his tormenter. He did say he could whip two Americans. Phelizot, coming on the scene just then, overhearing the remark, yelled,—“You can’t whip one,” and waded in to educate the Arab. In about two minutes, the Arab had enough, and ran among a crowd of Legionnaires for protection. One of the Legionnaires swung a canteen and hit Phelizot on the head, who did not stop till he beat the Arab to the ground. Morlae, Capdeville and other volunteers ran to Phelizot’s aid. Legionnaires flocked from all corners. A pitched battle seemed imminent. An officer heard the tumult, happening along, and separated them. The Arabs were transferred to another battalion. The Americans were herded into a loft, and placed under arrest; while sentinels walked underneath, with fixed bayonets, till the Arabs had been moved, bag and baggage. The doctor who dressed Phelizot’s wound probably did not know the canteen was rusty. Possibly he did not know he was hit by a canteen. At any rate, he did not give an anti-tetanic injection. The injured man steadily grew worse. He was not a squealer, and insisted on marching in line till the pain became unbearable. When too late, his condition was discovered. He had contracted blood poison which resulted in his death.