About the end of November there happened an extraordinary thing, of which I must give you an account. On the first fall of snow, our Landwehr had built on the hill, in the rear of their guns, huts of considerable size, covered with earth, open to the south and closed against the north wind. Under these they lighted great fires, and every hour relieved guard. They had also received from home immense packages of warm clothing, blankets, cloaks, shirts, and woollen stockings; they called these love-gifts. Captain Floegel distributed these to his men, at his discretion. Now, it happened that one night, when the Landwehr lodging with us were on guard, that I, knowing they would not return before day, had gone down to shut the back door which opens upon the fields. The moon had set, but the snow was shining white, streaked with the dark shadows of the trees; and just as I was going to lock up, what do I see in my orchard behind the large pear-tree on the left? A Turco with his little red cap over his ear, his blue jacket corded and braided all over, his belt and his gaiters. There he was, leaning in the attitude of attention, the butt-end of his rifle resting on the ground, his eyes glowing like those of a cat. [Illustration: THERE HE WAS, LEANING FORWARD TO LISTEN.] He heard the door open, and turned abruptly round. Then, glad to see one of our own men again, I felt my heart beat, and gazing stealthily round for fear of the neighbors, I signed to him to draw near. All were asleep in the village; no lights were shining at the windows. He came down in four or five paces, clearing the fences at a bound, and entered the mill. Immediately I closed the door again, and said: "Good Frenchman?" He pressed my hand in the dark, and followed me into the back room, where my wife and Gredel were still sitting up. Imagine their astonishment! "Here is a man from the town," I said: "he's a real Turco. We shall hear news." At the same moment we observed that the Turco's bayonet was red, even to the shank, and that the blood had even run down the barrel of his rifle; but we said nothing. This Turco was a fine man, dark brown, with a little curly beard, black eyes, and white teeth, just as the apostles are painted. I have never seen a finer man. He was not sorry to feel the warmth of a good fire. Gredel having made room for him, he took a seat, thanking her with a nod of his head, and repeating: "Good Frenchman!" I asked him if he was hungry; he said yes; and my wife immediately went to fetch him a large basin of soup, which he enjoyed greatly. She gave him also a good slice of bread and of beef; but instead of eating it he dropped it into his bag, asking us for salt and tobacco. He spoke as these people all do--thou-ing us. He even wanted to kiss Gredel's hand. She blushed, and asked him, without any ceremony, before our faces, if he knew Jean Baptiste Werner?