Here the difference between theory and practice certainly stood out clearly. Notwithstanding that our friend Bartek was a soldier, had attended manœuvres and drill, had practised rifle shooting, had known that the object of war was to kill people, now, when he saw blood flowing, and all the misery of war, it made him feel so sick and miserable he could hardly keep himself upright. He was impressed anew with respect for the French; this diminished, however, when they arrived at Cologne from Deutz. At the Central Station they saw prisoners for the first time. Surrounding them was a number of soldiers and people, who gazed at them with interest, but without hostility. Bartek elbowed his way through the crowd, and, looking into the carriage, was amazed. A troop of French infantry in ragged cloaks, small, dirty, and emaciated, were packed into the carriages like a cask of herrings. Many of them stretched out their hands for the trifling gifts presented to them by the crowd, if the sentinels did not prevent them. Judging from what he had heard from Wojtek, Bartek had had a wholly different impression of the French, and this took his breath away. He looked to see if Wojtek were anywhere about, and found him standing close by. 'What did you say?' asked Bartek. 'By all the Saints! I shouldn't be more surprised if I had lost my head!' 'They must have been starved somehow,' answered Wojtek, equally disillusioned. 'What are they jabbering?' 'It's certainly not Polish.' Reassured by this impression, Bartek walked on past the carriages. 'Miserable wretches!' he said, when he had finished his review of the Regulars. But the last carriages contained Zouaves, and these gave Bartek food for further reflection. From the fact that they sat huddled together in the carriages, it was impossible to discover whether each man were equal to two or three ordinary men; but, through the window, he saw the long, martial beards, and grave faces of veteran soldiers with dark complexions and alarmingly shining eyes. Again Bartek's heart leapt to his mouth. 'These are the worst of all,' he whispered low, as if afraid they might hear him. 'You have not yet seen those who have not let themselves be taken prisoner,' replied Wojtek. 'Heaven preserve us!' 'Now do you understand?' Having finished looking at the Zouaves, they walked on. At the last carriage Bartek suddenly started back as if he had touched fire. 'Oh, Wojtek, Lord help us!' There was the dark--nearly black--face of a Turco at the open window, rolling his eyes so that the whites showed. He must have been wounded, for his face was contorted with pain. 'But what's the matter?' asked Wojtek. 'That must be the Evil One, it's not a soldier. Lord have mercy on my sins!' 'Look at his teeth!' 'May he go to perdition! I shan't look at him any longer.' Bartek was silent, then asked after a moment: 'Wojtek?' 'Yes?' 'Mightn't it be a good thing to cross oneself before anyone like that?'