"Ohlsen," cried the _sous-officier_, and no answer was given. "Ohlsen," he repeated sharply. "Is not Ohlsen here?" And suddenly the face of the man in the serge suit flashed, and he answered hurriedly-- "Present." Even the _sous-officier_ burst into a laugh. The reason for the pause was too obvious; "Ohlsen" had forgotten that Ohlsen was now his name. "My lad, you must keep your ears open," said the _sous-officier_. "Now, attention. Fours right. March!" And the detachment marched off towards the barracks. "Ohlsen," said Tavernay, and he shrugged his shoulders. "Well, what does it matter? Come!" "Ohlsen" was Tony Stretton, and all the way along the Rue Daya to the barracks he was longing for the moment when he would put on the uniform and cease to figure ridiculously in this grotesque procession. None the less he had to wait with the others, drawn up in the barrack-square until Captain Tavernay returned. The Captain went to his office, and thither the recruits were marched. One by one they entered in at the door, answered his questions, and were sent off to the regimental tailor. Tony Stretton was the last. "Name?" asked Tavernay. "Hans Ohlsen." "Town of enlistment?" "Marseilles." Tavernay compared the answers with some writing on a sheet of paper. "Yes, Marseilles. Passed by the doctor Paul as sound of body. Yes," and he resumed his questions. "Nationality?" "Swede." Captain Tavernay had a smattering of most languages, and he was greatly inclined to try his new recruit with a few questions in the Swedish tongue. But the etiquette of the Legion forbade. He went on without a smile-- "Age?" "Thirty." "Vocation?" "Fisherman." Captain Tavernay looked up. This time he could not help smiling. "Well, it is as good as any other," said he; and suddenly there was a sound of cries, and three soldiers burst out of a narrow entrance on the further side of the parade-ground and came running across the square to the Captain's quarters. Both Tavernay and Stretton looked through the door. There was not a tree in that great square; the sunlight poured down upon the bare brown space with a blinding fierceness. All the recruits but Stretton had marched off; a second ago it had been quite empty and very silent. Now these three men were hurrying across it, shouting, gesticulating with their hands. Stretton looked at them with surprise. Then he noticed that one of them, the man running in the middle and a little ahead of the others, carried a revolver in his hand and brandished it. Moreover, from the look of his inflamed face, he was shouting threats; the others were undoubtedly shouting warnings. Scraps of their warnings came to Stretton's ears. "Mon Capitaine!" "Il veut vous tuer!" "Rentrez!" They were straining every muscle to catch the threatening soldier up. Stretton strode to the door, and a voice behind him cried-- "Halt!" It was Tavernay who was speaking. "But he is already halfway across the square." "Halt!"