The colonel continued. “I hope, Marshal, you will allow him his parole? he is, as you see, quite a child.” “Parole!” replied the Marshall,--“parole! such a mere lad cannot know the value of his promise.” A sudden fit of rashness came over me. “He is a mere boy,” reiterated the Marshall. “No, no--send him to prison;” and he resumed the study of the printed paper he had been reading. I struck in, impelled by despair, for, young as I was, I knew the character of the man before whom I stood, and I remembered that even a tiger might be checked by a bold front--“I am an Englishman, sir, and incapable of breaking my plighted word.” He laid down the paper he was reading, and slowly lifted his eyes, and fastened them on me,--“Ha,” said he, “ha--so young--so reckless!” “Never mind him, Marshal,” said the colonel. “If you will grant him his parole, I.”--“Take it, colonel--take it--take his parole, not to go beyond the ditch.” “But I decline to give any such promise,” said I, with a hardihood which at the time surprised me, and has always done so. “Why, my good youth,” said the Marshal in great surprise, “why will you not take advantage of the offer--a kinder one, let me tell you, than I am in the habit of making to an enemy?” “Simply, sir, because I will endeavour to escape on the very first opportunity.” “Ha!” said the Marshal once more, “this to my face? Lafontaine,”--; to the aide-de-camp,--“a file of soldiers.” The handsome young officer hesitated hung in the wind, as we say, for a moment--moved, as I imagined, by my extreme youth. This irritated the Marshal rose, and stamped on the floor. The colonel essayed to interfere. “Sentry--sentry--a file of grenadiers--take him forth,” and--here he energetically clutched the steel hilt of his sword, and instantly dashed it from him--“Sacre!--the devil--what is that?” and straightway he began to pirouette on one leg round the room, shaking his right hand, and blowing his fingers. The officers in waiting could not stand it any longer, and burst into a fit of laughter, in which their commanding officer, after an unavailing attempt to look serious--I should rather write fierce joined, and there he was, the bloody Davoust--Duke of Auerstad Prince of Eckmuhl--the Hamburgh Robespierre--the terrible Davoust--dancing all around the room, in a regular guffaw, like to split his sides. The heated stove had made his sword, which rested on it, nearly red-hot. All this while the quiet, plain-looking little man sat still. He now rose; but I noticed that he had been fixing his eyes intently on me. I thought I could perceive a tear glistening in them as he spoke. “Marshal, will you intrust that boy to me?” “Poo,” said the Prince, still laughing, “take him--do what you will with him;”--then, as if suddenly recollecting himself, “But, Mr----, you must be answerable for him--he must be at hand if I want him.” The gentleman who had so unexpectedly patronized me rose, and said, “Marshal, I promise.”