The good chaplain noticed this feature of his complaint, but instead of continually insisting on the fact that he was a dying man, he took the poor fellow, as it were, on his own ground, and treated him as if he were going to live.

"Gaspard, my son," the old man would say, "we must all die, and they live the happiest who are best prepared for it. Religion is not for dying people only: it is for those who have years before them in this world, for those who are the busiest of the busy, for strong men as well as more feeble women, for old and young, for rich and poor alike, for those in the midst of temptation as well as for men shut up in convents, for the soldier amidst the excitements of war, and for the husbandman plying his peaceful occupations. Therefore, Gaspard, let us all have religion."

It would not be becoming to attempt to narrate all that was said in the intercourse between the minister and his charge. There are many religions in the world, but only one way in which we can find peace with God. No mere form will save anybody; and to whatever communion we belong, there is but one essential mark that distinguishes in God's sight all who are of the one true spiritual Church—and we have it on the highest authority—"They shall be all taught of God." And for want of that teaching men go wrong in a thousand different ways!

Gaspard died, and they buried him. The place of interment for the prisoners of Norman Cross was a large field of several acres about a quarter of a mile from the corner where the Peterborough and Great North Roads meet, and on the west side of the latter. It was therefore a very short distance from the barracks. Why the Government purchased so large a field for the purpose it is impossible to say, unless they anticipated a very indefinite duration of the war. Not more than a small quarter of it has apparently been consecrated by the presence of the dead.

Here they brought poor Gaspard's emaciated body, and laid the child of sunny France in England's colder soil. The prison officials carried him, but no mourners followed, save Poivre, who got leave for that purpose. The chaplain at the head, and a sergeant's guard bringing up the rear, completed the procession. It has been said that the same coffin was used over and over again, and that each body was taken out of it at the grave and lowered without one; but it is impossible to credit it for a moment. Such a man as the Bishop of Moulines would never have suffered such barbarism, and the country that spent 300,000 pounds a year on this one prison, would never have grudged a coffin apiece to each poor fellow's body that required one. The libel must have originated with somebody (not an undertaker,) who thought in his poor heart that one was good enough for all. "It was only a prisoner."

There, without attracting the notice of the others, and so depressing them, but with decency and reverence, they laid the dead to rest.

It is a sacred spot still. How many have been laid there of those exiles from their fatherland, no record shows, and no one knows their names save He who is the common Father of us all, and before whom not one of them is forgotten. No prisoner was buried in the church or churchyard; nor did such exclusion arise from any want of respect, but from necessity; though it would be pleasant to have had to relate that some notice was in some way taken in the parish books of Yaxley of these interesting parishioners, who were fellow-men, and who had done no wrong but die for their country. But not one word is written about them, nor one allusion made to them.

Much more to be regretted, however, is the fact that, in the portion of the pasture field where the dust of these poor fellows awaits the day of resurrection, not one single thing of any the slightest sort is to be seen to indicate the solemn use to which it has been put. The soil, more sympathetic than man, still points by its depression to the spot where each grave has been, but no other record, no token whatever, not even an enclosure. So that when the authorities sold back the field, they sold it along with all the dead that lay in part of it.

Cui bono?

The answer is—in the words of the "Stranger"—

"Give something to the dead.

"Give what?

Respect."



CHAPTER VII.—ATTEMPTED ESCAPE.

It must have been a great aggravation of the trials of a prisoner of war that, from first to last, he was uncertain as to the duration of his captivity. Had it not been for the sham peace of Amiens, some of the prisoners would have been in confinement seventeen years, while others were set at liberty after only one or two. It may be said, Yes, but then they might always hope. But hope, like other things, wants something to feed upon. It cannot bring much consolation, when it lives upon fluctuation and uncertainty. And so a criminal, who knows how long exactly his term will last, is in this respect better off than a prisoner of war, for he escapes the agitation of uncertainty; just as it has been known that a person threatened with blindness, has become much less irritable when he knew for certain he could never see again, than he was when recovery was doubtful.

{Robert Lewin, aged 94. The only Yaxley Man who remembers Norman Cross Barracks. From a photograph taken by Rev. E. H. Brown: p113.jpg}

The scales of hope went up and down continually at Norman Cross, according to the intelligence that reached the prisoners from each seat of war. The triumphs of Napoleon on the Continent, and the victories of Wellington in the Peninsula, were pondered over with deepest interest by both officers and men. But no prophet was there among them, or anywhere else, who could forecast the issue that was swiftly coming on. At the commencement of the year 1812, all was still uncertain. In the Eastern provinces of Spain the French were almost everywhere triumphant. Napoleon was beginning his grand preparation for the invasion of Russia. Our cousins in America were displaying their brotherly instincts by declaring war against us in our trouble. Peace seemed as far off as ever.

Captain Tournier did not return to the barracks until his health was completely re-established, and Major Kelly was very liberal in his allowance of time. He quitted the hospitable roof of his friend with much regret, but with a heart full of gratitude, and went back to his discomforts as a man returning to his duty, not what he liked, but his duty, and what he meant to make the best of.

Alice Cosin was much struck with the alteration in him, so much so indeed that she did not quite like it. "He seems so cheerful," she remarked to her brother, "going back to that horrid place after all the comforts he has enjoyed with us."

"Ah, dear Alice," he replied, "Tournier always was a man, but he is more a man than ever now, and is going to play the man with his troubles, which is far harder work than fighting with sword and pistol."

Villemet, however, had been ordered back some time before, and returned to prison, it must be owned, with very bad grace.

That nice little bedroom, so sweet and clean, with creepers peeping in at him through the window, and reminding him of home; and those blue eyes, that always looked so true, made it hard work to leave. He went off with a heavy heart and the gloominess of a mute; and as he shook hands with his friends, he made the most profound bow to Alice, and said, "Miss Cosin, I am going from paradise to I'll not say what. You cannot imagine how awful the change will be."

A shower of good wishes refreshed him for the moment, but they did not prevent his entering the hated prison like a bear with a scalded head.

This amiable mood, not altogether to be wondered at, was not improved by the atmosphere of the prison, which he found more than ever charged with the depressing opinion among the prisoners that there was less likelihood than ever of the war coming to an end. Villemet, as we have seen, was a light-hearted fellow, even to a fault; but his light-heartedness was simply nature's good gift to him, it was not the fruit of principle, like the newly-found cheerfulness of his friend Tournier, and could not, or at least did not, stand the strain of long continued uncertainty.

"I will stand this vile bondage no longer," he said to himself one day. "Better be shot in trying to escape than stay longer in this foul den, and lose all my best days of manhood, buried before my time. Honour! What's honour among thieves? The English have robbed me of my liberty, and I will rob them of my presence. So we shall be quits. If they catch me, I will pay the penalty with my life. Is that not a fair bargain?"

It was bad logic. But when passion urges a man, good-bye to his logic!

Villemet said nothing to Tournier about it. He knew it would be of no use. Nor did he say anything to anybody. He had no wish to incur the responsibility of involving others in the rash attempt.

There was an inn called the "Wheat Sheaf" in the parish of Stibbington, about five miles from the barracks. It was a favourite rendezvous of the officers on parole, not for the sake of tippling, the chief attraction of such places in these more enlightened days, but because they could get a recherche dinner there, the mother of the highly respectable landlord being a singularly good cook. Villemet knew the place well, and had been often there. Thither he proceeded one afternoon on a day when he knew few, if any, from the barracks would be there, and had some dinner all by himself in the familiar parlour. Then he sat down in the well-worn arm- chair, and rang for a cigar. "If anybody calls to see me," he said to the waiting-maid, "shew him in here, and mind you don't let anyone disturb me while he is here. Now don't you forget," he added with a severe look the girl had never seen before in the merry fellow's face; "nobody whatever is to come in while we are talking."

In the evening of the same day, as it began to get dark, Tournier, who had been spending the day with Cosin, was on the point of getting up to return to the barracks, when the landlord of the "Wheat Sheaf" was announced. He had asked to see Tournier.

"Tell him to come in here," said Cosin, "and I will leave you to yourselves."

"Pray don't," said the other laughing; "I have no secrets with the worthy host of the 'Wheat Sheaf.'"

"I have brought bad news, gentlemen," said the man hurriedly; "your friend, Mr. Villemet, has made away with himself—"

"What! killed himself?" both exclaimed in horror.

"Not quite so bad as that, though it may end in something quite as bad. He has bolted, and never means to come back alive."

"How do you know?"

"My servant girl took it into her head to listen at the door, while a stranger, who had called upon the gentleman, was talking with him in the parlour; and she heard him mention something about a brace of pistols he had brought; and also, which was the best way to the Lincolnshire coast; and whether he could find him up a horse somewhere, she couldn't catch the name of the place. My wife and I were out at the time, but when we came home she let out all about it."

Well might they both look grave.

"How long ago did you first hear about this?"

"Less than two hours. I started directly. If the girl had only repeated some tittle-tattle I should have taken no notice of course, but as it was, I felt bound to let you know."

"Had Mr. Villemet left before you came away?"

"Oh, certainly: full an hour before."

"Don't let anyone know about it. It will be better for you not to mention it. It might spoil your custom."

Thus cautioned, the worthy landlord went away.

"Can you lend me a horse, Cosin?"

"Yes, and go with you myself."

He ordered two horses to be ready in half-an-hour, and himself went round to three or four neighbours, and invited them to join the party, telling them, of course, the object of their sudden departure. Not one of them hesitated a moment, for Villemet was popular among them; and the farmers of Yaxley were, at that time, manly, steady, and obliging fellows, in no wise ashamed to be seen in their place in the house of God. And the race is happily not extinct.

"Shall we take pistols?"

"Yes. But don't use them if you can possibly help it."

They cantered off, a party of six, all firm in the saddle, and passed the barracks without attracting much attention, as it was dark.

The difficulty was to know what road Villemet had taken, but they all agreed they must chance it, and go straight away to Spalding. Thither they galloped as fast as horses' legs could carry them, arriving there soon after midnight.

A belated hostler at one of the inns was asked whether he had seen a horseman, or horsemen, pass through the town lately. He scratched his head and meditated.

"Aye, to be sure I have. Leastways, one. What a memory I have! Why I had my lantern with me, and took a good look at him. By George, his horse was steaming. But it was a poor creature, and would sweat, I should think, if he only whisked his tail twice, only he'd got none."

"What a picture of a screw!" said one of the party, laughing heartily with the rest.

"Just what we wanted," said Tournier; and giving the man a tip, they all went off again.

They had gone but a few miles when they heard the sound of horse's feet in front of them. They halted and listened. It was only one horse, and they could distinguish the voice of the rider urging the poor beast along, with not very gentle thuds of a whip.

"It is Villemet's voice," said Tournier: "and he evidently hears us coming."

And now was the critical time. They wanted to secure without hurting him; and they also wanted to save him from the after misery of having hurt, or perhaps killed, one of them. So they broke into a canter, and, as they had arranged beforehand, began to sing at the top of their voices a jolly uproarious huntman's song; and passing Villemet (who took them for roysterers going home,) on the right and left, reined up their horses, the foremost riders seizing the bridle, and the next two pointing their pistols at the runaway, and cried, "Stand and deliver in the king's name," and then all burst out laughing.

Bewildered by this, Villemet's hand yet sought his pistol, but Tournier grasped his wrist and held it as in a vice, saying, "Don't you know me, old friend?"

"I don't call you a friend," said Villemet, "to put a pistol at my head, and stop me from escaping!"

"My dear man," answered one of the party, "none of our pistols are cocked."

At this, Villemet made a frantic effort to disengage his hand, but he was overpowered, and both his pistols taken from him.

"Remember, sir," the other said, "we can cock our pistols in a moment, and use them too: they are all loaded."

"Look here, my friend," said Tournier, calmly, "we have no wish to attend your funeral at Yaxley, or to have you shut up in the barracks all the rest of your time. So, if you will pass your word of honour to me that you will not again attempt to escape, and come back with us, no one shall know anything about this matter; and, as you will remember, your parole from the major extends over to-morrow, so you will be all right in that quarter."

Villemet made no reply. The proposal was hard of digestion in his very ruffled state, but there was certainly gilt on the gingerbread.

"And what if I refuse your gracious offer?" at last he said.

"Then, in that case," replied Tournier, "we shall tie your feet under the belly of this noble steed, with our pistols at full cock, lest he should run away, and take you back in triumph to Norman Cross to meet the fate you deserve."

The compact was made, and faithfully adhered to.

All parties concerned kept the secret well, and happily the air of Yaxley was unfavourable to idle gossip.

* * * * *

The overpowering sense of weariness and impatience which must have afflicted the prisoners, as in the case of Villemet, had its simplest and most direct antidote in occupation. A well known German poet has said, that occupation and sympathy are the two great remedies for grief of all sorts. Happily there were a great many of the prisoners who tried the first of these specifics. They spent a considerable portion of their time in making a variety of articles of more or less elaborate workmanship, and in many cases of great artistic beauty. Indeed, it is difficult which to admire most, the skill displayed in their work, or the dexterity with which they turned to account the very limited material that was within their reach—for the most part wood, straw, and beef-bones. It is surprising what delicate things they produced out of the last, which the kitchen supplied them with in abundance.

Some of them (no doubt sailors,) made models of ships, exact in the minutest details. Others, of the same material, made work-boxes, watch- stands, statuettes (one of the crucifixion and madonna), boxes of dominoes, a carved spinning-jenny, the figures representing the costumes of the period, guillotines, models of the block-house (partly wood), and many more articles of all descriptions.

Besides these really wonderful survivals of the soup-caldron (which by the way was five feet across, and more than three feet deep), the straw work of the prisoners was equally beautiful. There was a model of the noble west front of Peterborough Cathedral in straw marqueterie (and another in grass); also a picture representing a church, with mill and bridge, and a barge on the river; with all kinds of boxes, fire-screens, dressing-cases, tea-caddies, etc. These are given simply as specimens of the really skilled work they did, and which must have cost them much patience, and an infinite amount of care and trouble.

It is said that some of the prisoners made a good deal of money by the sale of these articles to visitors at the prison, and that when their liberation came at last, they had amassed fabulous little fortunes. At all events, their industry was rewarded. They obtained the means of adding to their comforts; and much better than this, whether they gained much or little in money, busy employment saved them from that greatest of all evils, the curse of even enforced idleness.

And so the handiwork of the prisoners of Norman Cross, who wisely chose to work, instead of idly repining in their trouble, is a useful lesson to all—to make the best of our circumstances, however trying and forlorn, by doing with our might the work we can do, even if it be not the work we like the best.



CHAPTER VIII.—AN ENEMY TURNS UP.

Captain Draper had only been eighteen months at Norman Cross when, to the great regret of all—prisoners, officials, and soldiers, he was seized with sudden illness and died. He was admirably fitted for the position he held there, but, like many a man engaged in much higher and more important work than his, and for which far greater qualifications are required, he was cut off in the midst of his usefulness.

That we cannot understand why such things happen is only to confess how limited is our knowledge; to complain of them, is to doubt the goodness and wisdom of the Almighty. Perhaps it is not a bad guess to suppose they are intended to teach us that most wholesome lesson—that few in this world are important, none necessary.

Every possible token of respect was shewed to his memory. With the prisoners themselves it was more than respect. Rough as many of them were, demoralized by severance from family ties, soured by hopelessness, they had found a man, to use an expression of holy writ, who had showed them "the kindness of God" in their affliction: and now he was gone from them for ever.

They addressed a petition to the commandant that some of them might be allowed to attend the funeral at Yaxley Church, a request which Major Kelly granted with the greatest readiness, and was much touched by the concluding words of the petition, that he need not be afraid of incurring any risk by letting them come out for the occasion, because, wild as many of them were, there was not a single man amongst them that was such a mauvais sujet as to take advantage of the opportunity to attempt his escape.

Both officers and men were represented, as well as a considerable number of the regiments on guard, though Major Kelly was too sound a soldier to detach too many, knowing that it was right to provide against not only what was likely, but also what was possible to happen.

It was a touching sight, as a military funeral always is, even when the departed one is an ordinary and undistinguished man. How much more when he has taken an honourable part in many a glorious field of battle! And how much more yet, when, as in this case, he has fallen on the field of unromantic duty, done with faithfulness, and with kindness, and with humanity.

His record still exists, and may be seen to this day on the north wall of the Lady-chapel of the grand old church of Yaxley, honouring alike the good man whose remains lie there, and the "poor prisoners," whose friend he was.

The tablet has the following words on it:

"Inscribed at the desire and at the sole expense of the French prisoners of war at Norman Cross, to the memory of Captain John Draper, R.N., who for the last 18 months of his life was agent to the depot; in testimony of their esteem and gratitude for his humane attention to their comforts during that too short period. He died Feb. 23, 1813, aged 53 years."

When all was over, Tournier remained behind to view the sacred edifice with his friend Cosin.

"What a magnificent church," he exclaimed, after he had looked round. "Why, it is a small cathedral! Are all your parish churches like this?"

"No," said Cosin, smiling, "this is the finest in the neighbourhood."

"But what is the meaning of those wooden boxes all about?" asked Tournier: "they look like (forgive me for saying so,) what we call 'stalles pour les bestiaux,' but there are seats in them"—peeping into one of the square pews.

"Oh, that is where we sit and worship."

"How droll!"

So it strikes a stranger! Taste in such matters had not yet come into fashion, or rather, it had gone away, and not yet come back.

"Well," said Tournier, greatly interested, and looking round with admiration on the noble building, with its beautiful windows and four fine chapels, "if my village church in France were anything like this, I would take a pride in doing my utmost to preserve and beautify it. It is a glorious gift. But, excuse me, my dear friend, it does not look cared for."

Then he asked about its age, and Cosin shewed him a place in the wall of one of the chapels where two hands are supporting a heart in some sort of relief. No inscription whatever accompanies the simple representation. "There," he told Tournier, "is said to be deposited the heart of William of Yaxley, a native of the place, who was Abbot of Thorney, near Peterborough, and who built, or enlarged this church. He was a true Yaxley man, and directed that his body should be buried in Thorney Abbey, and his heart in the wall of Yaxley Church. I have often thought how I should like to make a hole {133} in that wall, and search for that heart, but to my mind it would be nothing less than sacrilege to do such a thing merely to gratify curiosity. No! Let William of Yaxley's heart rest where he wished it to be. Yaxley was the home of his heart; Yaxley Church is the gift of his heart, and there should his heart rest in peace."

* * * * *

On the 21st of June, 1813, the battle of Vittoria was fought. The French, under Marshal Jourdan, took up a strong position before the town, but after obstinate resistance were beaten and driven through the place. The whole of their artillery, baggage, and ammunition, together with property valued at a million sterling, was captured; and they fled in the greatest disorder, never rallying till they reached the Pyrenees. It was the last great battle on the soil of Spain, but it was not the first time the pass of Roncesvalles had witnessed a French disaster.

The consequence was—a fresh batch of prisoners arrived at Norman Cross, and it was probably the last.

Captain Tournier was standing talking with a number of other officers, both English and French, near the entrance gate of the barracks, when they saw them approaching along the road.

As the new comers passed by, their reception, as always, was respectful and sympathetic. The Frenchmen scrutinized their fellows with friendly eyes to see if they could detect among them some former comrade, and when they happened to do so, which of course was not often, gave lively tokens of recognition. Tournier was not in the front part of the group of officers, but nevertheless could see fairly well.

And he did see! He saw a face he had not looked on for years, and which he had hoped never to see again: a face that he had tried, oh, so hard, to forget: a face that haunted him in his dreams: the face of the man he hated more than anybody in the world! and there he was walking along (even in this his humiliation,) with his old air of a man for whom all the world was made; handsome as ever, but with those same cold eyes that looked on everything as a joke, whether it were a man's life or a woman's honour!

"What's the matter with Tournier?" said one of the officers; "he has broken through like a madman and gone after someone yonder, as if he meant to do him grievous bodily harm!"

It was true. Tournier had uttered a strong exclamation, and broken through those in front of him with almost violence, and gone after somebody. He made for his man, and got up to him near enough to touch him, when he stopped short. "Fool that I am!" he thought; "I shall save his life by exposing him now! No! I will wait till I can make sure of him!"

And he turned away in terrible agitation.

All was brought back to his mind, and yet more to his heart. The man that had wronged him, that had caused him such anguish, that had well- nigh destroyed his life as he had his happiness, was brought close to him, at his very elbow, by this strange chance. And what for? Was it not that he might take vengeance on the scoundrel? He had forgiven her, but he never could forgive him. It was not meant that he should. So he thought.

And up and down the road he walked for hours, still thinking, till the stars came out in their glory, and looked down on him like pitying eyes. And once he looked up and noticed them, and they seemed to repeat the sweet refrain, "God is good, and can help." But he thrust it from him, and said aloud, "Then why did God send him to me."

"How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds, "Makes deeds ill done!"

Wearied with walking, he bethought himself where he should go for the night. Not to the barracks. How could he sleep under the same roof with that villain? The very sight of him would goad him on to commit some indecorum before the others. Should he go to his friend Cosin's? No! Something within made him shrink from encountering, in his present temper, that tranquil eye. He would be all for peace; and what had he to do with peace while her dishonour (as he put it) was unavenged, as well as his own.

However, to walk about all night, especially when by yourself, is not pleasant. Alas, for those who have to do it, and with no relief to come its rounds! So Tournier determined to get quarters at the "Wheat Sheaf," and knocked the landlord up, as it was past midnight.

Next morning he went to the barracks, and sent in his name to the commandant, asking for an interview. Major Kelly looked surprised; it was not the usual way of approach.

"I am very sorry, sir," said Tournier, "to trouble you in this irregular way; but the fact is, I am in great perplexity as to what I ought to do, and could not explain myself first to anyone else."

"What is your difficulty, Captain Tournier?" said the major, rather coldly.

"Among the prisoners who arrived yesterday was a certain Colonel Fontenoy, who is my bitterest enemy, having wronged me past all endurance. I cannot be in the same quarters with him. Could you do me the very great kindness of putting me into one of the other wards, even though it be that of common men?"

Major Kelly paused awhile, as if thinking. "Is this Colonel Fontenoy," he said, at length, "the same man as he who did indeed wrong you so shamefully, and drove you to desperation?"

"The very same."

"When you first spoke," said the major, "I was going to say that it was quite out of my power to arrange the prisoners with exact regard, or even any regard, to their private quarrels; but then yours is no common case, and I may add, your sensitiveness of no ordinary kind, I will see to the matter. But not to put you among the common men. You can stay in your old quarters, and I will put the colonel into other, and perhaps better ones. Of course I am bound to act justly towards him; and if he behaves himself, he will be out on parole; but I will confine him to the road in the west direction, so that you can keep out of his way."

Major Kelly was as good as his word. But Tournier had no intention of keeping out of the colonel's way, whenever he should get out on parole. The old feelings, natural but not Christian, had revived in him with a sudden rush at the sight of the man, and he was completely carried away by them. His only fear was lest, through precipitancy, or the interference of others, he should be hindered from obtaining from Fontenoy the satisfaction he demanded, if that be rightly satisfaction which consists in killing or wounding another, or in being killed or wounded oneself.

He never left the barracks for many days after this, but relapsed into his old moody ways. Villemet could not make out what was the matter with him.

One day they were walking together in the yard, when Tournier suddenly said, "Villemet, I want you to do something for me. It will, perhaps, be the last favour you will ever show me."

"Then I would rather not do it."

"But you must. Who do you think is in the prison at this present moment?—Fontenoy. He came with the others some days ago."

"Is it possible?" cried Villemet, almost jumping with astonishment.

"And I want you to be my second: for as soon as ever he gets out on parole, I mean to challenge him, and the duel must be a l'ontrance."

"With the greatest possible pleasure," said his friend.

But they had to wait. It was some time before Fontenoy was out on parole. The major was in no hurry about it, out of consideration probably for Tournier.

At last, one day, Villemet, who kept up a sharp enquiry, announced the good news that the colonel was to be out next day. Both of them accordingly were on the watch for him in the road; and, sure enough, saw him coming along towards them, snuffing the air with great delight, and looking about him with evident satisfaction. The satisfaction, however, was not of long duration.

As the colonel's eye caught the first glimpse of two gentlemen approaching him, he seemed to smell, as it were, something wrong, for

"Conscience does make cowards of us all";

and when he came near enough to distinguish features as well as figure, he turned pale, and his effrontery for the moment left him. But it soon came back, and he met Tournier's cruelly stern gaze with a look of careless defiance. Tournier stopped in front of him.

"Colonel Fontenoy," he said, with the coldness of the grave: "my friend here has something to say to you on my behalf."

The colonel began to speak; but Tournier at once silenced him.

"I have nothing to say to you, sir," and passed on.

Then Villemet proceeded to execute his commission with all frigid politeness and particularity. It is not worth while to relate what such a man as Fontenoy said on the occasion. But the challenge was accepted. The seconds were to arrange all the rest.

As the day drew near when, as Tournier learned, the colonel would again be out on parole, he felt a strong desire to make his confession to the bishop. There might be but a step between him and death. Besides, he was not easy in his mind. He was not quite sure he was doing right in thus seeking the life of his enemy.

So he sought and, as always, found a ready hearer in the chaplain. But when he came to tell him what he contemplated doing, the good man looked pained and surprised.

"And do you really think, my son, that the minister of God can forgive a sin before it is committed? and that sin wilful murder?"

"Murder?"

"Yes, murder!"

"How can that be, when each has an equal chance?"

"Of committing murder!"

"There are many who fight duels."

"There are many who do wrong, my son."

"Then is killing in battle murder?"

"No, for it is not done in revenge. It is the motive that makes killing murder. Your motive is revenge."

And then he went on to urge Tournier, for whom he had entertained the tenderest regard, that he would give up his bloody intention, and leave his enemy to God. He expostulated with him, used the most affectionate entreaties, appealed to the authority of his holy office.

But all in vain. Tournier stoutly, but in the most respectful language, refused to comply, and the bishop refused to grant him absolution.

But Tournier was most unhappy. Let those who remonstrate with another, apparently in vain, remember to their comfort, that oftentimes the remonstrance has not been entirely thrown away. The first blow of the hammer does not drive home the nail, but it begins to do so.

One more evening before the fatal day: That evening he would spend with his friends at the Manor House. He had treated them badly for several weeks, and never gone near them; but they received him just as cordially as ever, and took no notice of his absence, only expressed their pleasure at seeing him, which touched him all the more; and then the thought caused a lump in his throat that, perhaps, he might never see them again. He did not like to speak of what he was about to do before Alice, because it was an unpleasant subject for ladies' ears, but when she went out of the room, he began at once to tell her brother all, from first to last.

Never had he seen Cosin so greatly disturbed. He listened with open mouth and staring eyes to all that Tournier said without uttering a word. Not a remark did he make: not a question did he ask. Then, when the tale was told, and Tournier was waiting for some reply, Cosin started from his chair, and began to pace up and down the room in extreme agitation. At length he stopped in front of the other, and said, sternly but sorrowfully,—

"Then, after all, you have given up God."

"I hope not."

"But you have, on your own shewing: and taken up with the devil."

Tournier writhed under this, and was about to say something sharp, but Cosin went on,—

"I will prove it to you. God says, 'Vengeance is mine: I will repay'; and you say, 'Not so, I will avenge myself.' And whenever we contradict God, we take up with the devil."

Then Cosin sat down again, and in his old gentle tone of voice, said,—

"Which do you think has sinned most against the other: Fontenoy against you, or you against God?"

Tournier was silent. He was thinking of all the misery that man had brought upon him. How happy he might have been, if he had not come between him and his love. He thought of his future, and how, even if ever he were set at liberty again, life would be a blank to him. And he ground his teeth with rage.

And then he heard his friend Cosin saying with quiet voice, like the voice of conscience,—

"When once you had given up God, in years gone by, and you scouted Him who had given you every comfort and blessing you possessed, who had preserved you every day and night, so that you would have dropped down dead had He withheld His hand any moment, and who had covered your head in the day of battle—did He take vengeance on you? or did He open your eyes and make you see some glimpse of His goodness?"

Then, after a pause, he went on in the same quiet way,—

"And when, in the madness of your distress, you tried again and again to drown yourself, as if there were no God, no life after death, no power to help in the Almighty; whose voice was it in your heart that bade you stop each time, and bade you hope?

"And, as you lay on that sick bed, and your life trembled in the balance, whose power was it that gave the turn to your distempered mind, instead of dealing with you after your sin, and rewarding you after your iniquity?"

Once more he paused. Then said in a yet lower tone of voice, almost in a whisper, but with perfect naturalness, "And far, far above all, when we were yet without strength, ungodly sinners, who was it signalized His love towards us by dying for us on the cross?"

More passed between the two friends that night. But Cosin could elicit no definite promise from the other. He only said, with great emotion, as they parted,—

"Truest and best of friends, I shall think all night of these things."

And he did turn and twist about for hours in his berth, so that more than once his fellow prisoners cried out angrily, "What is the matter with you, Tournier?" But he fell asleep towards morning, as soon as he had at last made up his mind that Fontenoy might kill him if he could, but he himself would fire into the ground.

As he went out in the morning he met the chaplain. He stopped him and said, "You are going, I see, to keep your appointment. Spare yourself the trouble. Your enemy has been struck down by another hand than yours. The Almighty has smitten him with paralysis. He is never likely to recover."

But he did recover; and so we take our leave of him with the greatest possible pleasure.



CHAPTER IX.—PRISONERS EMANCIPATED.

The retreat of Napoleon, after the battle of Leipsic, was as disastrous to him as his retreat from Moscow. On the 9th of November, 1813, he reached Paris, and on the 21st of the following month the allied armies crossed the Rhine, and carried the war into France. Soon after, the English, under Wellington, defeated the French, under Soult—"the bravest of the brave," in several engagements in the South of France, until the knell of Napoleon's arms was sounded in the bloody battle of Toulouse, fought on Easter Sunday, the 11th of April, 1814. Six days before the battle, Napoleon had abdicated at Fontainebleau. If the electric telegraph had been known in those days, all the lives lost in that fearful fight might have been saved. But that would have been a small matter to Napoleon.

The war was ended. That long, weary war—so wanton, so unnecessary, save for Europe's liberty, and England's existence—that had left its trail of blood almost everywhere, and desolated so many thousands of homes, was ended.

To many and many a poor prisoner, the year 1814 must have been like the blessed year of jubilee. Two hundred thousand Frenchmen were set free in Russia alone: but they had not been in confinement for very long. In continental countries there must have been many more. Some fifty thousand were located in various parts of England and Scotland, of whom a large number had been imprisoned for several years, and they were no doubt the most joyous of all.

But it must have been anything but an easy matter even to get rid of such numbers of men, all in a state of more or less excitement, intoxicated with a sense of newly gained liberty. Without proper precautions an emancipation on so large a scale would have led to much disorder, at least in the neighbourhood where prisoners had been confined. To avoid this they were marched off in detachments to the sea-coast, where ships were ordered to attend and embark them for conveyance to their own dear France.

Such necessary arrangements of course took time, and it was not until August that the last batch of prisoners left Norman Cross.

Of course, the poor fellows were aware of the great change in their condition that was coming by what they gathered from the current news of the day; yet, whenever the actual proclamation of liberty reached them, we can but faintly imagine the delirium of excitement that followed. Then, in the place where for so many years the sighing of the prisoners had been heard, mingled, it might be, with the sound of revelry, in which the wretched tried to drown their misery, pealed forth the shouts of those who sang for very joy and gladness of heart.

Poivre was still among them. That man of the revolution, like many others of the older prisoners, had learned something by his captivity. He used to think, and with too much reason, that the rich and high-born were the vultures that preyed on the poor; but now he had discovered that one risen from the ranks might be as heartless and oppressive as "Monsieur" of old, and be utterly indifferent how many lives were lost, and how many imprisoned for years, to gain his own selfish ends.

They were sitting together at supper, some of them, a few evenings before their turn came to leave, when the remark was made that "the little corporal" would never have another chance, but was driven into a hole at last.

"Think you so?" replied Poivre; "I am not so sure of that. It must be a curious hole that man cannot get out of sooner or later. He has the cleverness of the devil, if there be one."

"Would you fight again for him, Poivre, if he did come out of his hole?"

"Not I," said he, "if I could help it. Some of us have had enough of him. We begin to think we have not been fighting for "France and glory," but for him, and he does not care two pins for us. But there are thousands of fellows who are such fools that, if the emperor were only able to shew himself again, they would flock to him, and be ready to become food for powder the next moment. I am going to prophecy, my friends. Mark what I say. When all our countrymen have been set free, Napoleon will have an army, a grand army, ready to hand. Depend on it, he has his eye on this, and will make use of the opportunity; but he will not find Marc Poivre in the ranks!"

Human prophecies are acute guesses, and when they come true, correct guesses. Such was Poivre's prophecy. But was it not a fatal mistake, though, perhaps, one that could not be avoided, to place an army within Napoleon's grasp, even as we had given him back the sailors that manned his navy by the bogus peace of Amiens?

This at least is certain, that the volcano which had desolated Europe for so many years but had become quiescent when Napoleon abdicated at Fontainebleau, burst forth again with an awful blaze in 1815, and was only extinguished for ever at Waterloo. So, some at least of the prisoners at Norman Cross may again have fought gallantly against us.

Captain Tournier, like the rest, was longing to see once more his old home, but had first to pay a farewell visit to his friends at the Manor House. He was with them only a couple of nights, and Villemet was invited to stay also. The meeting could not be otherwise than mingled with sadness to each of them. They had known each other now for nearly six years, and those years had been made interesting by intercourse of no ordinary kind.

At dinner, Cosin was the most cheerful of them all. He was really very sorry to part with his friends, especially with Tournier, whom he loved as a brother; but he could not for the life of him make out why two men who had just obtained the freedom they had so long pined for, and were on the point of starting for the homes they had dreamt of every night for years, should be so awfully down. And least of all, like a stupid fellow that he was, and as most men are in such matters, could he imagine why Alice should take upon herself to look so supremely wretched, and hardly open her mouth all dinner time.

Nothing could exceed the minute attention which Villemet paid to her, though all in good taste, but with an anxious, if not mournful air, as if he were appointed to watch over her health, and was not quite happy about it.

Alice received his attentions with perfect politeness, but her ears were evidently occupied with something else.

Tournier took no more notice of her than any gentleman would naturally do to the lady of the house at a party of four. Almost all his conversation was addressed to Cosin, and consisted chiefly of references to happy days gone by, during their intercourse with each other. Each allusion ended with a sort of sigh, as if to say, "Ah, there will be no more of that now!"

"Upon my word, Cosin," he cried, "if it were not for my sweet old mother, I would almost be a prisoner again to live near you."

The blue eyes brightened a little. And there was someone who noticed it, and, oh! how he wished he had made the same remark.

To understand Tournier's enthusiasm, we must know something of how a deeply sensitive nature is drawn toward the one who has saved his soul from death.

"Come, my friends," said Cosin, "let us be merry while we can, which to my thinking is always, if we cast our future upon God. There is no happiness unalloyed with sorrow in this world. We must wait for that. I drink to the perpetual amity of our two countries. God has made us neighbours: why should we quarrel? We have been fighting, but we have not been quarrelling. Let French and English be better friends than ever. And when the devil of ambition next arises in either country, and tempts us to disagree, let us bid him leave his foul work alone, for we, the people, are fast friends for ever."

Next morning, the four went out for their last ride together. Alice and Villemet went first, and the others followed. As they passed the familiar spot where Villemet had spent so many weary days and nights, Alice remarked, how glad he must be that he was a free man once more.

"Yes, Miss Cosin," he replied in a very dissatisfied tone; "yet I am not free altogether, my body is, but I shall leave my heart behind me."

"Oh, that will never do," said Alice, with more vivacity than he quite liked: "you will want your heart. You could never be a heartless man I am quite sure," and she looked archly at the handsome young fellow as she said it, and smiled so provokingly.

"It is true however," he said, but in such a melancholy way, that Alice felt sure something serious was coming.

"If I might only leave my heart with you," he added, "I should be quite content to go away without it."

"But what on earth should I do with it?" she said, purposely disregarding the sentimental, and sticking to the literal meaning of his words.

"Keep it close to your own," was his reply.

"Then should I be queen of hearts indeed!"

"You are that already to me."

It was time, she thought, to put a stop to this; so, after riding on a little further, Alice said very demurely, "I thought, sir, you were more in jest than earnest, but, at all events, I am altogether in earnest when I say, that you must never repeat to me what you uttered just now. I wish always to regard you as a friend—a friend found under circumstances of deep interest to my brother and myself—but nothing more; never anything more! Let us join the others."

And she turned her horse's head, and met her brother and Tournier, her face slightly flushed; while Villemet rode after her much more disturbed than ever he had been when charging a whole battery of guns.

They too had been talking together as they followed the others along the familiar road that passed by the barracks. It was on the old subject that Tournier seemed never to weary of.

"There," he said, pointing to the spot where he had first met Cosin, "that is where I first set eyes on your sunny English face. I remember it by that blighted tree in the hedge-row. I often thought, when I passed it afterwards, that it was exactly like me at that time—half-dead for want of God—fungus everywhere."

Then, as they passed the barracks, he said, "Stop a moment, Cosin. Look at that gate yonder. How well I remember coming out of that gate in an awful state of mind—nearly mad—determined, as a last resource, to see if you, or anybody, really believed in God; and I found you did, for you lived as if you did. And then began those blessed years of teaching, not so much by words as by example, which have made me a happy man, though, God knows, and you know too well, a very faulty one."

"Say no more, my good friend," replied Cosin; "only let not our separation now be an end to our intercourse. You shall ever be to us a welcome visitor."

"And I, for my part, shall ever be delighted to renew my acquaintance with the place which has been at once, the saddest and the happiest in my life."

The others had now joined them.

"Tournier will soon be here again!" cried Cosin to his sister, unable to repress the pleasure that he felt, but entirely, dull fellow that he was, on his own account.

And all, saving Villemet, finished their ride in the best of spirits.

Next day came the parting.



CHAPTER X.—ENGLAND AND FRANCE UNITED.

Who could describe the pleasure felt by the Frenchmen as they gazed once more on the shores of their own dear country after so long an absence! Even Villemet lost his lugubrious looks, while his friend, brimming over with joy, seemed almost ready to leap into the sea to get there. He sprung about the deck, sang snatches of songs, laughed at every remark Villemet made even when there was nothing to laugh at, in fact, made himself somewhat ridiculous.

As soon as they landed, they instantly made arrangements to post straight away to their homes, which were not far apart from each other. Villemet's came first; and there, as they drove up, a perfect swarm of younger brothers and sisters came out to devour him; his old father and mother looking on behind with calmer but not less real delight. It was a pretty sight, and as Tournier drove away amid their joyful greetings, he could not help for the moment envying him, and contrasting the scene with that which was awaiting himself, with only one welcome—only one—but then that was the welcome of a mother!

He had to pass a well-known house; but as he drew near, he dashed down the blind, and turned away fiercely, till it was passed. "Dead!" he muttered.

The nearer he drew to his old home the more familiar were the objects that met his eye, till at last he spun through the gates, and up the drive, and almost leaping into the house, cried to the smiling servants, "Is she in her old room?"

And there he found her. She was pretty as ever, prettier than ever, as he thought.

"Mother, I have come to take care of you at last," he said; "and to the last, thank God."

"Thank God," she murmured in reply.

But though his mother seemed almost like her old self under the exhilaration of that happy meeting, Tournier could not but observe how feeble she was in every way. And when the first gush of joy was over, he saw it more plainly; and every day he noticed it increasingly. Where some stamina is left, a sudden stimulus may lead to permanent improvement, but when there is none, excitement only revives for the moment, and leaves the patient weaker than ever. So was it with the dear old lady. Those years of lonely sorrow, aggravated by uncertainty and bitter disappointment, had killed her; and Tournier had only come in time to make the last few months of her life her happiest ones for many a day past.

One evening, as the end was drawing near, she suddenly said, "My son, what will you do when I am gone?"

"Sweet mother," was his reply, "I shall trust in God to help me bear my sorrow patiently. I know He will."

"Why not marry a wife? It is God's own remedy for man's loneliness."

"Where shall I find one? I know no woman that I could trust now." Then, after a pause, he added, "And yet there is one I could trust. Yes, those blue eyes could be trusted. I would spurn the man who dared to say they could not."

Then he told his mother all about Alice; and she listened with deepest interest, and a little flush came over her delicate pale face. But it became pale as before when he said, "Ah! mother mine, Alice Cosin is not for me, nor for anyone: she is bound for life to her good brother, and I would not break that lovely bond even if I could."

In the autumn of 1815 she died, her eyes fixed to the last on her son. And when they closed for ever, it seemed to him that love unutterable was extinguished. But he took refuge in his God.

It was hard work, however, to keep on living in the old place where everything reminded him so much of the past, both of joy and pain. He would have asked his friend, Villemet, to take compassion on his loneliness, and come and stay with him awhile; but the irrepressible fellow had gone off to the wars some time ago, and joined the army of Napoleon, distinguishing himself greatly at Waterloo. Again and again had Tournier's thoughts reverted to Alice Cosin, but each time he had repelled the pleasing idea as an impossibility. "How could I," he repeated, as the fair vision floated away, "for my selfish ends spoil the happiness of a friend like him?"

Fortified by this resolution, he determined at length to find consolation in fulfilling his promise of a visit to England. There was no reason why he should not enjoy the immense pleasure of seeing his friend again, and of course his sister. It would do him all the good in the world.

So he started with gladness to visit once more the land to which he had been unwillingly conveyed as a prisoner some seven years before. The old welcome was renewed with yet greater heartiness, and Tournier felt for the first time at home since his mother's death. Only, at their first greeting, he thought it proper to shew a little sort of restraint in addressing Alice, and he could not but notice that this assumed restraint made her beaming face look rather grave.

{The House of the Commandant. New the residence of J. A. Herbert, Esq., J.P. From photo. by Rev. E. H. Brown: p168.jpg}

One of the first things Tournier said he must see was the barracks.

"They have just finished pulling them all down," said Cosin. "Every building except Major Kelly's house, and the officers' quarters has been removed and the material sold by auction. However, you would like to see the old spot. I am sorry I cannot go with you to-morrow, but Alice can shew you the way if you have forgotten it!"

So they rode there the next morning.

"It seems like a dream," said Tournier, as he gazed for a long while upon the site where, as he too well knew, so many hearts had ached for years. "Who is going to live in the house of Major Kelly?"

"He has bought it for himself, but he is not there now."

"How I should have liked to see him. He was a fine officer and an excellent man. And now, Miss Cosin, will you mind going with me to another spot more interesting to me than even this, I mean the prisoners' burial ground, where my body would now have been laid but for your dear brother and you?"

That last word would have made Alice willing to go anywhere, and she cheerfully consented to pay the rather doleful visit.

When they reached the portion of the field where the interments had taken place, they let their horses nibble the grass, and silently surveyed the scanty mounds.

Tournier was lost in thought, and Alice watched him.

"Poor fellows, poor fellows," he said at length: "how many of them I have known! Some of them were in my squadron. Nearly all young, or in the prime of life—all dead before their time, worn out or broken-hearted."

"How many, do you think, are buried here?" asked Alice.

"Roughly speaking, I should say at least three or four hundred."

"Will not the Government mark the spot, or at least raise some memorial to these brave men?"

"I should think so," replied Tournier; "or if the English Government failed to do so, ours will not forget them. And yet, the shameful butchery of Marshal Ney does not favour the idea. They may look on them, as they did him, as soldiers of Napoleon, not of France."

Then they slowly wended their way homeward, Tournier turning round on his saddle to take a last look at the place that interested him so deeply, and again exclaiming, "There should I be lying now, in a dishonoured grave, but for God's great mercy."

That night, poor Alice could not sleep, but watered her pillow with tears.

"He does not care for me a bit," she said; "he is just the same as he used to be, only stiffer in his manner. But what does it matter? I could never leave my darling brother; and what is more, I never will. But he is so nice, nicer than ever." And the tears came again, with a wee bit of vexation in them, and kept on at intervals, till kindly sleep at length fell on those dear blue eyes, and dried them up.

And while this was going on, her brother and his friend were smoking and talking together below.

"You must find it very wearysome, Tournier, to live by yourself now. You are not the man to like that sort of thing. You are too unselfish to be a confirmed bachelor. Excuse me for touching on a painful subject, I use the privilege of a friend."

"I thank you for doing so. But the fact is, and you cannot be surprised at it, I have lost all faith in a woman's constancy. No doubt there are many of my countrywomen who would make me a happy man, but I don't know them, and do not mean to search them out."

Cosin was silent.

What good angel put it into Tournier's mind to come out with it? but he did burst forth, after a pause, with the imprudent assertion, "The only woman in the world I know in whom anybody might place entire reliance is your sister. Sure am I that the blue sky of Heaven does not more truly reflect the love of God than her blue eyes reflect constancy and truth!"

Tournier felt he had betrayed himself, and was vexed.

As to Cosin, he opened his eyes with amazement at the other's vehemence of manner. Then a bright smile of surprise lighted up his face, and he said, "Why on earth then do you not ask her to be your wife?"

"My dear fellow," replied Tournier, in his turn amazed, "you surely know why. Did you not tell me years ago that she would always be your companion through life? and do you think I could be such a base scoundrel as to breathe one single syllable to her that might tempt her for even a moment to think of leaving you?"

Cosin seemed really angry instead of pleased at this, and said severely, "And so you thought me such a selfish brute, that I would rather keep her sweet companionship to myself, and be her gaoler more than her brother, than give her a free woman's choice to marry anyone that was worthy of her, and on whom (lucky dog!) she had set her dear heart? I do not thank you for the compliment."

Tournier looked on his irritated friend with admiring surprise. It was like the harsh grating of a heavy door that had hitherto barred his way to happiness, but was now opening.

"The thing is," said Cosin in a milder tone, "does Alice like you?"

"I cannot say. She never did anything to make me suppose it. But I was not observant, for I did not think about it."

"And yet, silly fellow that I am," said Cosin, "I now remember how her face always lighted up when she heard about you, or we talked of your coming. What a blind bat I have been! Oh, how I hope she does like you. I am sure she must. But you must find it out, and if she has any scruples left, tell her to come to me and I will satisfy her."

And Tournier, nothing loth, did find it out next day. The interview shall not be described, for such things are sometimes related with admirable taste and effect, but much more often are made ridiculous; and as this was pre-eminently sensible, natural and real, it shall not run the risk of being spoilt by any attempt of the kind. It must be sufficient to say that the interview was perfectly successful, only Alice persisted in saying that, although she entirely and joyfully believed what Tournier told her about her brother, yet she must speak to him herself, and hear from his own lips that he gave a willing consent. And Tournier only admired her the more for it.

Away, therefore, she went with radiant face to seek her brother; nor did it take long to get his consent. As she came into the room he forestalled her object, and folding her to his breast said, "Dear Alice, I know what you are going to say. Your face tells the tale. You have fulfilled, more than fulfilled, your loving duty to me. Do one thing more to make me happy—go and make that dear good fellow happy all the rest of his days. And remember," he added, as he held her a little from him, and looked into her blushing face with pretended severity, "you shall never come under my roof again if you disobey me! Come, I will give you to him myself."

And they found Tournier awaiting the verdict without the slightest degree of suspense.

"I have brought you your wife," Cosin cried.

What followed may well be imagined by all but ill-natured people, who see no chance of their ever being placed in a similar predicament themselves.

In the course of the evening, Cosin suddenly said with great gravity, amounting almost to solemnity, and looking first at Tournier, and then at Alice: "There is a matter that still remains to be settled. You have run away, Tournier, with my wife, and it is only fit and right that you should make what compensation is in your power."

Both the others were taken rather aback, especially as Cosin continued to seem very much in earnest.

"There must be a marriage-settlement of some sort."

"Assuredly," Tournier replied, relieved, but still somewhat puzzled.

"Whatever you think right, I shall be delighted to do."

"Do you really mean that?" said Cosin, still very seriously.

"Indeed I do. Everything I possess I would joyfully give to my sweet love," looking at her with intense affection. "She is worth more than all I have beside."

"But I want more than money and lands," persisted Cosin. "Mind, you have agreed to do whatever I may propose."

"Yes. Anything you require. I trust you as my own soul."

"Then the marriage-settlement must be this: That so long as we all three live, you two shall come and spend a good part of the summer with me every year, and that you will let me spend a good part of every winter with you in your sunny home. Provided always—here comes the lawyer—that if we do at any time wish to turn summer into winter, or winter into summer, we may do so by mutual agreement."

"Could anything be better!" cried the others in great delight. "Agreed, agreed."

Then Cosin, no longer able to look grave, laughingly exclaimed, "Signed, sealed, and delivered."

A few weeks after, Captain Tournier went over to France to prepare his house for the reception of his bride. He did not stop long, but returned with a heart full of gratitude to God, and joyful expectation of a happy future.

They were married in Yaxley Church in the presence of a crowded congregation. More than half the people who attended could see nothing because of the bullock-boxes: but they were there, and their hearts too. And when the grand old bells pealed forth a joyous welcome, the bridegroom could hardly repress a tear (only one!) for they reminded him how often the merry sound that now so truly harmonized with his over-brimming joy, had seemed of old to mock his misery as he listened to them from within his prison walls.

* * * * *

Their happy union, to compare small things with great, may be taken as an emblem of the entente cordiale that ought ever to subsist between the two countries of France and England, and which can only be jeopardized by that rabid journalism which, with slight occasion, or none at all, seems always to take delight in doing its utmost to "let loose the dogs of war."

One word more.

The two stone bosses which for many years have capped the piers of the west gateway of Yaxley Churchyard, formerly occupied the same position on the piers of the principal entrance to the Norman Cross Barracks. And when the poor prisoners of old passed between them, they were entering the place of captivity and grief and hopelessness. But now, as the good Yaxley people pass between the same bosses to go into their noble House of Prayer, they may rejoice in the thought that they are entering the place where liberty and peace and everlasting hope await them as the gift of God, through Jesus Christ their Saviour.

THE END.



Footnotes:

{17} See account of the battle of Vimiero in Napier's History of the Peninsular War, Book II, Chapter V.

{44} This is fact, not fiction. It would be interesting to know the history of this good man after the prisoners were discharged in 1814. One thing is certain, that he must ever have enjoyed a feast of memory to his dying day in having been a shepherd and bishop of souls to these poor prisoners.

{133} It is much to be regretted that the ravenous curiosity of a former vicar has since made this very hole. A wooden box was found with a heart inside in perfect form, but which instantly crumbled to dust when exposed to the air. The dust was returned to the cavity, and the box is kept at the Vicarage; but an aromatic odour still impregnates the box, just as the church William of Yaxley built still preserves the holy use to which it was devoted.

THE END