At last the long-threatened conscription was levied: every person fit to bear arms, and not coming under the allowed exceptions, drew a number: and at a certain hour the numbers corresponding to these were deposited in an urn, and one-third of them were drawn in presence of the authorities. Those men whose numbers were drawn had to go for soldiers. Jacintha awaited the result in great anxiety. She could not sit at home for it; so she went down the road to meet Dard, who had promised to come and tell her the result as soon as known. At last she saw him approaching in a disconsolate way. “O Dard! speak! are we undone? are you a dead man?” cried she. “Have they made a soldier of you?” “No such luck: I shall die a man of all work,” grunted Dard. “And you are sorry? you unnatural little monster! you have no feeling for me, then.” “Oh, yes, I have; but glory is No. 1 with me now.” “How loud the bantams crow! You leave glory to fools that be six feet high.” “General Bonaparte isn’t much higher than I am, and glory sits upon his brow. Why shouldn’t glory sit upon my brow?” “Because it would weigh you down, and smother you, you little fool.” She added, “And think of me, that couldn’t bear you to be killed at any price, glory or no glory.” Then, to appease her fears, Dard showed her his number, 99; and assured her he had seen the last number in the functionary’s hand before he came away, and it was sixty something. This ocular demonstration satisfied Jacintha; and she ordered Dard to help her draw the water. “All right,” said he, “there is no immortal glory to be picked up to-day, so I’ll go in for odd jobs.” While they were at this job a voice was heard hallooing. Dard looked up, and there was a rigid military figure, with a tremendous mustache, peering about. Dard was overjoyed. It was his friend, his boon-companion. “Come here, old fellow,” cried he, “ain’t I glad to see you, that is all?” La Croix marched towards the pair. “What are you skulking here for, recruit ninety-nine?” said he, sternly, dropping the boon-companion in the sergeant; “the rest are on the road.” “The rest, old fellow! what do you mean? why, I was not drawn.” “Yes, you were.” “No, I wasn’t.” “Thunder of war, but I say you were. Yours was the last number.” “That is an unlucky guess of yours, for I saw the last number. Look here,” and he fumbled in his pocket, and produced his number. La Croix instantly fished out a corresponding number. “Well, and here you are; this was the last number drawn.” Dard burst out laughing. “You goose!” said he, “that is sixty-six--look at it.” “Sixty-six!” roared the sergeant; “no more than yours is--they are both sixty-sixes when you play tricks with them, and turn them up like that; but they are both ninety-nines when you look at them fair.” Dard scratched his head. “Come,” said the corporal, briskly, “make up his bundle, girl, and let us be off; we have got our marching orders; going to the Rhine.”