“It must be for us--answer it.” His bugle did so. “Bring the pitch, men the flax--so now--break the windows, and let the air in--set the house on fire; and, Sergeant Guido, remain to prevent it being extinguished I shall fire the village as we pass through.” He gave the word to face about; and, desiring the men to follow at the same swinging run with which the whole of the infantry had originally advanced, he spurred his horse against the hill, and soon disappeared. My host’s resolution seemed now taken. Turning to the sergeant, “My good fellow, the reconnoissance will soon be returning; I shall precede it into the town.” The man, a fine vieux moustache, hesitated. My friend saw it, and hit him in a Frenchman’s most assailable quarter. “The ladies, my good man--the ladies!--You would not have them drive in pell-mell with the troops, exposed most likely to the fire of the Prussian advanced-guard, would you?” The man grounded his musket, and touched his cap--“Pass on.” Away we trundled, until, coming to a cross-road, we turned down towards the river; and at the angle we could see thick wreaths of smoke curling up into the air, showing that the barbarous order had been but too effectually fulfilled. “What is that?” said----. A horse, with his rider entangled and dragged by the stirrup, passed us at full speed, leaving a long track of blood on the road. “Who is that?” The coachman drove on, and gave no answer; until, at a sharp turn, we came upon the bruised and now breathless body of the young officer, who had so recently obeyed the savage behests of his brutal commander. There was a musket-shot right in the middle of his fine forehead, like a small blue point, with one or two heavy black drops of blood oozing from it. His pale features wore a mild and placid expression, evincing that the numberless lacerations and bruises, which were evident through his tom uniform, had been inflicted on a breathless corpse. The stuhl wagen had carried on for a mile farther or so, but the firing seemed to approximate, whereupon our host sung out, “Fahrt Zu, Schwager--Wir Kommen nicht weiter.” The driver of the stuhl wagen skulled along until we arrived at the beautiful, at a mile off, but the beastly, when close to, village of Blankanese. When the voiture stopped in the village, there seemed to be a nonplusation, to coin a word for the nonce, between my friend and his sisters. They said something very sharply, and with a degree of determination that startled me. He gave no answer. Presently the Amazonian attack was renewed. “We shall go onboard,” said they. “Very well,” said he; “but have patience, have patience!” “No, no. Wann wird man sich einschiffen mussen?”