"Here is the chamber of the unfortunate Louis XVI.," he said, opening

the door of the apartment in which the august prisoner had been

confined.

Rovère, the same to whom Ramel had applied, and who had told him that

there was nothing to fear from the concentrated movement of the

troops--Rovère, the former lieutenant of Jourdan Coupe-Tête, who had

apologized to the Assembly for the massacre at the Glacière, could not

support this sight, and withdrew, striking his forehead with his hands

as he went.

Pichegru, now as calm as though he had been again with the Army of the

Rhine, deciphered the inscriptions which were written in pencil on the

woodwork and scratched with a diamond on the window pane. He read this

one:

"O God! pardon those who have killed my parents!

O my brother, watch over me from heaven!

May the French be happy!"

There could be no doubt as to who had traced those words, but he wished

to assure himself of the truth. Lavilleheurnois asserted that he

recognized the handwriting of Madame Royale; but Pichegru sent for the

porter, who assured him that it was indeed the august daughter of Louis

XVI. who had written these lines, so replete with Christian spirit. Then

he added: "Gentlemen, I beg of you not to efface those lines so long as

I am here. I have vowed that no one shall touch them."

"Very well, my friend," said Pichegru; "you are a worthy man." And while

the other spoke, Delarue wrote beneath the words: "May the French be

happy!"

"Heaven will hear the prayers of the innocent."

Meanwhile, although they were separated from the world, the prisoners

had the satisfaction of learning upon several occasions that they were

not forgotten.

On the very evening of the 18th Fructidor, as the wife of one of the

prisoners was leaving the prison, she was accosted by a man she did not

know.

"Madame," said he, "you are doubtless connected with one of the

unfortunate men who were arrested this morning."

"Alas! yes, sir," she replied.

"Well, then, permit me to send him, whoever he may be, this slight loan,

which he can repay in better times." And so saying, he put three rolls

of louis in her hand.

An old man whom Madame Laffon-Ladébat did not know came to her house on

the 19th Fructidor.

"Madame," he said, "I feel for your husband all the esteem and the

friendship which he deserves. Be good enough to give him these fifty

louis. I regret exceedingly that I have only this small sum at present

to offer him." And then, noting her hesitation and divining its cause,

he added: "Madame, your delicacy need not suffer. I am only lending this

money to your husband; he can repay me when he returns."

Almost all the men who were condemned to exile had occupied the foremost

offices of the government for a long time, and it is a remarkable fact

that on the 18th Fructidor, when they were about to be exiled, they were

all poor.

Pichegru, the poorest of all, when he learned that he was not to be

shot, as he had at first supposed, but only exiled, was much disturbed

about his brother and sister, whose sole support he had always been. As

for poor Rose, we know that she was able to support herself with her

needle, and was richer than any of them. Had she known of the trouble

which had befallen her friend, she would surely have hastened to him

from Besançon and opened her purse to him.

That which most disturbed the man who had saved France on the Rhine and

who had conquered Holland, the richest of all the provinces; who had

handled millions, and refused to sell himself for millions; was not

married, and was accused of having received a million in money, of

having exacted a promise of the principality of Arbois, with two hundred

thousand livres' income and reversion to his wife and children, and the

château of Chambord, with twelve cannon which he had captured from the

enemy--that which most disturbed this man, who had no wife or children,

who had given himself for nothing when he might have sold himself for a

great price, was a debt of six hundred francs, which he had not paid.

He sent for his brother and sister and said to the latter: "You will

find at my lodgings the hat, coat and sword which I wore when I

conquered Holland. Put them up for sale with the inscription, 'The hat,

coat and sword of Pichegru, who has been exiled to Cayenne.'"

His sister did as he bade her, and the following day she came and told

him that a pious hand had paid her the six hundred francs and that the

debt was cancelled.

Barthélemy, one of the most prominent men of the time, politically

speaking, since he had negotiated the treaties with Prussia and Spain,

the first which the Republic had ever signed, and who could have

compelled each of these powers to have given him a million, had for sole

property a farm which brought him in an annual income of eight hundred

livres.

Villot, at the time of his arrest, possessed only one thousand francs. A

week before he had lent them to a man who called himself his friend, but

who failed to return them before his departure.

Laffon-Ladébat, who, since the proclamation of the Republic, had

neglected his own interests for those of his country, and who had once

possessed an immense fortune, could scarcely get together five hundred

francs when he learned of his condemnation. His children, upon whom had

devolved the duty of paying his creditors, did so only to find

themselves thereafter in penury.

Delarue supported his old father and all his family. Rich before the

Revolution, but ruined by it, he owed the help which he received at his

departure to friends. His father, an old man of sixty-nine, was

inconsolable, but grief could not kill him. He lived in the hope of

seeing his son again some day.

Three months later he was told that an officer of the navy, who had just

arrived in Paris, had met Delarue in the deserts of Guiana. He at once

wished to see and talk with him. The officer's story was of interest to

the whole family, and they were all assembled to meet him. The officer

entered. Delarue's father rose to go and meet him; but just as he was

about to throw his arms around his neck, joy killed him, and he fell

dead at the feet of the man who said: "I have seen your son."

As for Tronçon de Coudray, who had nothing but his salary to live on,

he was deprived of all his offices when he was arrested, and went away

with two louis for his entire fortune.

Perhaps I am wrong, but it seems to me, since the historians neglect

this duty, that it is well for the novelist to follow in the wake of

revolutions and _coups d'état_, and teach men that it is not always

those men to whom statues are erected who are most worthy of respect and

admiration.

Augereau, after having been charged with the arrests, was appointed to

watch the prisoners. He gave them for their immediate keeper a man who

had been, until within a month, at the galleys at Toulon, where he had

been sent after a trial by court-martial, for theft, murder, and

incendiarism, committed in the Vendée.

The prisoners remained at the Temple from the morning of the 18th

Fructidor until the evening of the 21st. At midnight the jailer woke

them, telling them that they were to start, and that they had a quarter

of an hour in which to get ready. Pichegru, who still preserved the

habit of sleeping with his clothes on, was ready first, and went from

room to room to hasten his comrades. He went down first, and found

ex-director Barthélemy between General Augereau and minister of the

police Sothin, who had brought him to the Temple in his own carriage.

Sothin had treated him well, and as Barthélemy thanked him, the minister

replied: "We know what revolutions are. Your turn to-day, ours, perhaps,

to-morrow."

When Barthélemy, anxious about the country rather than about his own

affairs, asked if no harm had resulted from it and if the public peace

had not been disturbed.

"No," replied the minister; "the people swallowed the pill; and, as the

dose was a good one, they took it without any trouble." Then, seeing all

the exiles at the foot of the tower, he added: "Gentlemen, I wish you a

pleasant journey."

Then getting into his carriage he drove away.

Augereau ordered the roll of the prisoners to be read. As they were

named, a guard led them to the carriages past a file of soldiers who

insulted them as they went along. Some of those men--miserable river

bastards always ready to insult those who were down--tried to reach

across the others in order to strike the exiles in the face, to tear

their clothing, or to bespatter them with mud.

"Why do you let them go?" they cried. "You promised us that they should

be shot."

"My dear _general_," said Pichegru, as he passed Augereau, emphasizing

the title, "if you promised those men that, you are doing very wrong not

to keep your word."

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE JOURNEY

Four carriages, or, rather, four boxes on wheels, inclosed on all sides

with iron bars, which bruised the prisoners at every jolt, received the

exiles. Four of them were placed in each cage, and no attention was paid

either to their weakness or their wounds. Some of them had received

sabre cuts; others had been wounded, either by the soldiers who had

arrested them or by the mob, whose opinions always will be that the

conquered do not suffer enough.

There was a keeper for each wagon and each group of four men, who had

the care of the key of the padlock which closed the grating which served

in lieu of a door.

General Dutertre commanded the escort, which consisted of four hundred

infantry, two hundred cavalry, and two cannon.

Every time the exiles got in or out of the cages, the two pieces were

trained diagonally upon the carriages, while gunners stood ready, with

lighted matches in their hands, to fire the cannon, should any of them

attempt to escape, both upon those who made the attempt and upon those

who did not.

The condemned men began their journey on the 22d Fructidor (8th of

September) in the midst of a terrible storm. They had to cross the whole

length of Paris, starting with the Temple, and leaving the city through

the Barrière d'Enfer, to take the road to Orléans. But instead of

following the Rue Saint-Jacques, the escort, after crossing the bridge,

turned to the right and led the procession to the Luxembourg. Here the

three directors, or rather Barras, who was the three in himself, was

giving a ball.

Barras, when notified, hastened to the balcony, followed by the guests,

and pointed out Pichegru, three days earlier the rival of Moreau, Hoche,

and Bonaparte, and with him Barthélemy, his former colleague, Villot,

Delarue, Ramel--in short, all those whom the turn of Fortune's wheel or

the forgetfulness of Providence had put in his power. The exiles heard

Barras, amid noisy bursts of laughter and joy enjoin Dutertre,

Augereau's man, "to take good care of these gentlemen." To which

Dutertre replied: "Never fear, general."

We shall soon see what Barras meant when he said "Take good care of

these gentlemen."

In the meantime the people who were coming out of the Odéon Club

surrounded the wagons; and being refused permission to do what they

urgently demanded to do--to tear the exiles to pieces--they consoled

themselves by throwing fireworks which enabled them to see the prisoners

without any trouble.

Finally the procession passed through the Rue d'Enfer to the

accompaniment of fierce cries for their death and howls of rage, and

left Paris. At two o'clock in the afternoon, having made only

twenty-four miles, they reached Arpajon. Barthélemy and Barbé-Marbois,

the weakest of the exiles, were lying upon their faces, apparently

exhausted.

When they heard that the day's journey was ended, the prisoners hoped

that they would be conducted to some suitable place where they could

take a little rest. But the commander of the escort took them to the

prison reserved for thieves, eagerly examining their faces and showing

the utmost delight when they manifested repulsion and disgust.

Unfortunately, the first wagon to be opened was the one in which

Pichegru had travelled; his impassive face did not betray the least

emotion. He merely said as they approached the hole: "If it is a

stairway, give me a light; if it is a well, tell me so at once."

It was a staircase, of which several steps were missing. This calmness

exasperated Dutertre.

"Ah, rascal," he said, "you think you can defy me; but we shall see one

of these days whether I cannot find the end of your insolence."

Pichegru, who reached the bottom first, called out to his companions

that some one had been thoughtful enough to spread straw for them, and

thanked Dutertre for the attention. But the straw was soaking wet and

the cell was foul.

Barthélemy came next, gentle, calm, but exhausted and aware that he

could not expect an instant's repose. Lying half in the icy water, he

raised his hands murmuring: "My God! my God!"

Then came Barbé-Marbois, who was upheld by the arms. At the mephitic

odor which arose from the cell, he drew back and said: "Shoot me, and

spare me the horror of such agony."

But the jailer's wife who stood behind him answered: "You are very

particular. Better men than you have gone down there without making such

a fuss." And with a vigorous shove she sent him head first from top to

bottom of the stairs.

Villot, who was next, heard Barbé-Marbois cry out, and the answering cry

of his comrades who darted forward to seize him as he fell, and grabbing

the woman by the neck, he said: "Upon my word, I have a good notion to

strangle you. What do you all say?"

"Leave her alone, and come down here with us," answered Pichegru.

They had raised Barbé-Marbois. His face was bruised, and his jawbone

broken. The three exiles who were safe and sound began to cry: "A

surgeon! A surgeon!"

There was no answer. Then they asked for water to bathe their comrade's

wounds; but the door was closed and it did not open until two hours

later, and then only to pass in their dinner, consisting of a loaf of

bread and a pitcher of water.

They were all very thirsty, but Pichegru, accustomed to all sorts of

privations, immediately offered his portion of the water to bathe

Barbé-Marbois's wound. The other prisoners, however, would not permit

this sacrifice. The necessary amount of water was taken from the general

fund; and as Barbé-Marbois could not eat, his portion was divided among

the others.

On the next day, 23d Fructidor (9th of September), they started again at

seven in the morning. No inquiries were made as to how the exiles had

passed the night, and the wounded man was not allowed to see a surgeon.

They reached Etampes at noon. Dutertre ordered a halt in the middle of

the square, and exposed the prisoners to the insults of the crowd, who

were permitted to surround the wagons, and who took advantage of the

permission to hoot, curse, and bespatter with mud the men of whose crime

they were ignorant, and who were prisoners in their eyes simply because

they were prisoners. The exiles insisted that they go on, or be allowed

to leave the wagons. Both requests were refused. One of the exiles,

Tronçon de Coudray, was deputy for the Department of the Seine-et-Oise,

which includes Etampes, and which was then the very canton whose

inhabitants had supported his candidacy with the most enthusiasm.

He resented this ingratitude and desertion of his people therefore all

the more keenly. Rising suddenly, as if he had been in the tribune, and

replying to those who had called him by name, he said:

"Yes, it is I--I myself, your representative! Do you recognize him in

this iron cage? It is I, whom you have intrusted with your rights,

which are being violated in my person. I am dragged to punishment

without having been tried, without even having been accused. My crime is

that I have protected your liberty, your property, your persons; that I

have wished to give peace to France, and by so doing to return to you

your children who are being slaughtered by the enemy's bayonets. My

crime is that I have been faithful to the Constitution to which we have

sworn allegiance, and to-day, as a reward for my zeal in defending you,

you join the ranks of my executioners! You are wretches and cowards,

unworthy to be represented by a man of heart."

And he relapsed into his apparent indifference once more. The crowd was

for a moment crushed and awed by this attack; but they soon renewed

their insults, which became more outrageous than ever when the condemned

men were given their dinner, which consisted of four loaves of bread and

four bottles of wine. This exhibition lasted three hours.

That evening they stopped for the night at Angerville, and Dutertre

wished to put the prisoners together in one cell, as he had done the

night before. But an adjutant-general, who by an odd coincidence was

named Augereau, took it upon himself to lodge them in an inn, where they

passed a comfortable night, and where Barbé-Marbois was able to secure

the services of a surgeon.

On the 24th Fructidor (10th September) they reached Orléans early, and

passed the rest of that day and the following night in a house of

confinement which had formerly been an Ursuline convent. This time the

deputies were not guarded by their escort, but by gendarmes, who, while

obeying orders, treated them with the utmost consideration. They quickly

recognized in the two servants who had been sent to help them, in spite

of their disguise of coarse clothing, two ladies of rank who had sought

this opportunity to offer help and money. They even promised Villot and

Delarue to assist them to escape. They could facilitate the escape of

two prisoners, but no more. Villot and Delarue refused, fearing that

their flight would aggravate the fate of their two companions. The names

of these two angels of charity have never been known. To name them at

that time would have been to denounce them.

History has from time to time such moments of regret which give rise to

a sigh.

The next day the party reached Blois. A crowd of boatmen were waiting

for them on the outskirts of the town in the hopes of breaking open the

wagons and murdering the prisoners. But the captain of cavalry

commanding the detachment, whose name was Gautier--history has preserved

his name, as it has that of Dutertre--signalled to the exiles that they

need have no fear.

Then he took forty men and routed the rabble. But insults were

nevertheless lavished upon them. The names of rascals, regicides, and

panders were hurled blindly at them by the furious crowd, through the

midst of which they passed on their way to a damp little church, where

the prisoners found a small quantity of straw strewn upon the floor.

As they entered the church, the people crowded near enough for Pichegru

to feel some one slip a little note into his hand. As soon as they were

alone, Pichegru read the little note. It contained these words:

General, it only depends on yourself to leave your prison, mount a

horse, and escape under an assumed name by means of a passport. If

you consent, as soon as you have read this note, approach the guard

who is watching you, taking care to leave your hat on your head;

this will mean that you consent. Then, from midnight until two

o'clock be dressed and on the alert.

Pichegru walked toward the guard bareheaded. The man who had endeavored

to save him cast a glance of admiration at him and walked away.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE EMBARKATION

The preparations for departure from Blois consumed such a length of time

that the prisoners feared that they were to make a stay there, and that

during that stay some harm would befall them. They were all the more

convinced when the adjutant-general, who was in command of their troop

under Dutertre--one Colin, well known in the country as the author of

the massacres of the 2d of September--and one of his companions, named

Guillet, who had no better reputation, entered the prison one morning

about six o'clock.

They seemed much excited, grumbled as though to egg themselves on, and

looked at the exiles with a baleful eye. The municipal officer who had

accompanied the prisoners from Paris had an inspiration. He went

straight up to them, and looking them in the eye, said: "Why do you

delay the start? Everything has been ready for a long time. The crowd

increases and your conduct is more than suspicious. I have seen and

heard you both stirring up the people and urging them to acts of

violence against the prisoners. I swear to you that should aught befall

them when they go out, I will place my deposition upon the register, and

that the responsibility shall fall upon you."

The two knaves stammered some excuse. The wagons were brought out, and

the prisoners were accompanied with the same shouts, jeers and

imprecations which had greeted them on the preceding day; but they were

none of them hit by the stones which were thrown or by the blows which

were aimed at them.

At Amboise they were placed for the night in a room so small that they

were unable to lie down upon the straw. They were obliged either to

stand up or to sit down. They hoped to get some rest at Tours, but they

were cruelly disappointed. The town authorities had recently been

subjected to a weeding-out process, and were still terrorized. The

prisoners were taken to the prison reserved for the galley-slaves. They

were compelled to mingle with them, and some of the deputies asked for a

place by themselves.

"That is your apartment," said the jailer, pointing to a little cell

which was both damp and dirty.

Thereupon the galley-slaves gave evidence of more humanity than the

jailers, for one of them approached the exiles, and said humbly:

"Gentlemen, we are very sorry to see you here. We are not worthy to

approach you; but if, in the unhappy state to which we are reduced,

there is any service which we can render you, we pray you to be good

enough to accept it. The cell which has been prepared for you is colder

and damper than ours; we beg of you to take ours, which is larger and

drier than yours."

Pichegru thanked the poor wretches in the name of his companions, and,

shaking hands with the one who had acted as spokesman, he said: "So it

is to you that we must now look for human hearts!"

The exiles had not eaten for more than thirty hours, and each one now

received a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine. It was a gala day for

them.

The next day they stopped at Saint-Maure. Lieutenant-general Dutertre,

having found in this little town a flying column of the National Guard

composed of peasants, took advantage of the opportunity to relieve his

troops, who could hardly put one foot before the other. He therefore

ordered the column to guard the exiles, under the supervision of the

municipality, which fortunately had not in this case been weeded out.

These worthy peasants took pity on the unfortunate prisoners. They

brought them food and wine in such quantities that they could for the

first time eat and drink in a measure commensurate with their hunger

and thirst. Besides this, they were less strictly guarded; and so

negligent were these worthy people, most of whom were armed only with

pikes, that they were permitted to go as far as the causeway, whence

they could see the forest, which seemed to have been placed there

expressly to afford them a refuge.

Ramel ventured to suggest a flight; but some opposed it on the score

that it would seem like a confession of guilt, and others refused

because their escape would have cruelly compromised their keepers, and

would have involved the first of their kind who had shown compassion for

their sufferings.

Day came and they had hardly slept, for the whole night had slipped away

in the discussion, and they were forced to re-enter the iron cages and

become once again the property of Dutertre. They crossed the dense

forest at which they had gazed so eagerly the previous evening. The

roads were frightful. Some of them obtained permission to walk between

four of the cavalry. Barbé-Marbois, Barthélemy and Du Coudray, wounded

and almost at the point of death, could not take advantage of this

permission. They were lying upon the floor, and at every jolt were

thrown against the iron bars, which bruised them and drew from them, in

spite of their stoicism, cries of agony. Barthélemy was the only one who

did not utter a single groan.

At Châtellereault they were confined in a cell so foul that three of

them fell down asphyxiated as they entered. Pichegru pushed open the

door just as they were about to close it, and seizing a soldier threw

him to the rear of the cell. The man almost fainted, and reported that

it would be impossible to live in such an atmosphere. The door was left

open and a sentinel placed before it.

Barbé-Marbois was very ill. Du Coudray, who was taking care of him, was

seated on the straw at his side. A man who for three years had been in

irons in the neighboring cell obtained leave to visit them, brought them

some fresh water, and offered his bed to Barbé-Marbois, who felt a

little better after a couple of hours' sleep.

"Have patience," this man said to them; "one can get accustomed to

anything in time. I am an example of this, for I have lived for three

years in a cell like yours."

At Lusignan the prison was too small to hold the sixteen exiles. Rain

poured in torrents and a cold wind was blowing from the north. Dutertre,

who stopped at nothing, ordered the cages to be closed, had the horses

unharnessed, and cages and prisoners remained in the public square. They

had been there about an hour when the mayor of the town and the

commander of the National Guard came and offered to be responsible for

them if they were allowed to pass the night at the inn. The authorities

gained their point, though not without some difficulty. The prisoners

were no sooner established in three rooms, with sentinels at the doors

and beneath the windows, than they saw a courier ride up and stop at the

same inn to which they had been taken. Some of them, more hopeful than

the others, were of the opinion that the courier came with good news.

All were convinced that he was the bearer of a message of importance.

In fact he carried an order for the arrest of General Dutertre for

extortions and larcenies committed since the departure of the exiles,

and to take him back to Paris.

They found the eight hundred louis d'or which had been given him for the

expense of the convoy still in his possession, which he had pocketed,

levying contributions instead upon the towns through which he had

passed. The exiles heard this with joy. They saw the carriage drive up

which was to take him; and Ramel, whose curiosity impelled him to

neglect precaution, opened the window. The sentinel in the street fired

at once, and the ball shattered the window-pane.

Dutertre arrested, the conduct of the convoy fell to his second in

command, Guillet.

But, as we have said, Guillet was not much better than Dutertre. On the

day following, when they reached Saint-Maixant, the mayor approached the

exiles and was so ill-advised as to say to them: "Gentlemen, I

sympathize deeply with your situation, and all good citizens share my

feeling."

Guillet himself seized the mayor, pushed him toward two soldiers, and

ordered him to be imprisoned.

But this act of oppression so revolted the townsfolk, by whom the mayor

seemed to be much beloved, that they rose in a body and forced Guillet

to return them their mayor.

The thing that most disturbed the exiles was the fact that they were

ignorant of their destination. They had heard Rochefort named, but in

the vaguest possible manner. Deprived of all communication with their

families, they could obtain no information as to the destiny which

awaited them.

The secret was revealed at Surgeres. The mayor insisted that all the

prisoners should be lodged at the inn, and had gained his point.

Pichegru, Aubry, and Delarue were lying upon mattresses spread upon the

floor of a room in the second story, separated from the floor below by

planks which were so poorly joined that they could see and hear all that

was going on below.

The leaders of the escort, all unsuspecting of the fact that they were

both seen and heard, were at supper in the room below. A naval officer

had just joined them. Every word that they said was of moment to the

unfortunate exiles, and they listened attentively.

The supper, which was long and abundant, was very lively. The tortures

which they inflicted upon the exiles formed the theme of merriment. But

when the supper was finished, about half-past twelve, the naval officer

remarked that it was about time to begin operations. This word

"operations," as can readily be understood, riveted the attention of the

listeners.

A man who was wholly unknown to them, and who acted as Guillet's

secretary, brought pens, paper and ink, and began to write at that

officer's dictation. He dictated a report, that, in conformity with the

last orders of the Directory, the prisoners were to leave their cages

only to go aboard the "Brilliant"--a brigantine fitting out at Rochefort

to receive them.

Pichegru, Aubry, and Delarue, although thunderstruck by the tenor of

this report, made a day ahead of time, which left no doubt as to their

deportation, said nothing about it to their companions. They thought

that it would be soon enough for them to learn the sad news at

Rochefort.

They arrived there on the 21st of September, about three or four o'clock

in the afternoon. The convoy left the main street and followed the

fortification, where an immense crowd awaited them, turned the corner of

the square, and went toward the bank of the Charente. There was now no

longer any doubt, either for those who had heard the fatal secret, or

for the thirteen who were as yet ignorant of it. They were about to be

sent on shipboard, deprived of the barest necessities of life, and

exposed to the dangers of a voyage whose goal was unknown to them.

At last the wagons stopped. Some hundreds of sailors and marines,

disgracing the uniform of the navy, placed themselves in line with the

exiles as they descended from their cages--which they almost regretted,

to such extremes were they reduced. Ferocious cries welcomed them: "Down

with the tyrants! Into the water with the traitors! Into the water with

them!"

One of these men stepped forward, doubtless to accomplish his threat.

The others pressed after him. General Villot walked straight up to him,

and folding his arms, said: "Villain! you are too great a coward to

render me that service!"

A boat approached, an official called to them, and, one after another,

as they were named, the exiles got into the boat. The last,

Barbé-Marbois, was in such a desperate condition that the official

declared that if they took him aboard in that state he would not live

two days.

"What is that to you?" brutally demanded Guillet; "you are only

responsible for his bones."

A quarter of an hour later the exiles were on board a two-masted vessel

lying at anchor in the middle of the river. It was the "Brilliant," a

little privateer taken from the English. They were received there by a

dozen soldiers who seemed to have been especially chosen for the

position of executioners. The exiles were thrust into a little space

between decks so narrow that scarcely half of them could sit down, and

so low that the others could not stand upright. They were obliged to

take turns in two positions between which there was not much choice.

An hour after they had been put there some one remembered that they

ought to have something to eat. Two buckets were sent down, one empty,

the other filled with half-cooked beans swimming in reddish water that

was even more disgusting than the vessel which contained it. A loaf of

bread and some water, the only things of which the prisoners partook,

completed the foul repast which was destined for men whom their

fellow-citizens had chosen as the most worthy among them to be their

representatives.

The exiles would not touch the beans in the bucket--although they had

eaten nothing for thirty-six hours--either because they were disgusted

with their appearance, or because the guards had not seen fit to give

them either spoons or forks; and, as they had to leave the door open in

order to admit the air, they were obliged to submit to the jeers of the

soldiers, who finally grew so offensive in their language that Pichegru,

forgetting that he no longer held command over them, ordered them to be

silent.

"You will do well to hold your tongue yourself," replied one of them;

"you had better be careful, you are not out of our hands yet."

"How old are you?" asked Pichegru, seeing that he looked very young.

"Sixteen," replied the soldier.

"Gentlemen," said Pichegru, "if ever we return to France we must not

forget this child; he promises well."

CHAPTER XXXV

FAREWELL, FRANCE!

Five hours elapsed before the vessel got under way; she did so at last,

however, and after sailing for an hour, she stopped in the open

roadstead. It was nearly midnight.

Then there was a great commotion on deck. Among the innumerable threats

which greeted the exiles at Rochefort, cries of "Into the water!" and

"Drink out of the great cup!" had been most frequent, and had reached

the prisoners' ears. No one expressed his thought, but they each

expected to find the end of their tortures in the bed of the Charente.

The vessel to which they had been transferred was doubtless one of those

which had a movable plug--an ingenious invention of Nero's to rid

himself of his mother, and utilized by Carrier to drown the royalists.

They heard the order to put two of the ship's longboats into the water;

then an officer commanded every one to stand to his place in a loud

voice. Then, after a moment's silence, some one called the names of

Pichegru and Aubry.

They embraced their companions and went on deck. A quarter of an hour

passed. Suddenly the names of Barthélemy and Delarue were called.

Doubtless the two others had been made away with, and now it was their

turn. They embraced their comrades, as Pichegru and Aubry had done, and

went on deck, from which they were made to pass into a little boat,

where they had to sit side by side in the thwart. A sailor placed

himself upon another thwart opposite; the sail was hoisted and they were

off like a shot. The two exiles kept feeling the planks with their feet,

fancying that they could see the hole which had already swallowed up

their comrades.

But this time their fears were without foundation; they were merely

being transferred from the brigantine "Brilliant" to the corvette

"Vaillante," whither two of their companions had preceded them and

where the others were to follow. They were received by Captain Julien,

in whose face they sought in vain to read the secret of their destiny.

He affected to look severely at them, but when he was alone with them he

said: "Gentlemen, it is plain to be seen that you have suffered

terribly. But have patience; while executing the orders of the

Directory, I shall overlook and neglect nothing that can add to your

comfort."

Unhappily for them, Guillet had followed them. He heard the last words,

and an hour later Captain Julien was replaced by Captain Laporte.

Strange freak of Fate! The "Vaillante," a corvette carrying twenty-two

guns, which the exiles were now boarding, had recently been built at

Bayonne; and Villot, who was commanding general of the district, had

been chosen to christen her. He himself had selected the name

"Vaillante."

The exiles were sent between decks; and as it did not occur to any one

to give them anything to eat, Dessonville, who suffered more than any of

the others from lack of food, asked: "Do they really propose to let us

die of hunger?"

"No, no, gentlemen," said an officer named Des Poyes, laughing. "Do not

be uneasy, you will have your supper."

"Only give us some fruit," said the dying Barbé-Marbois; "something to

cool our mouths."

A fresh burst of laughter welcomed this request, and some one threw the

poor famished creatures a couple of loaves of bread from the deck.

"What a delicious supper," exclaims Ramel, "for poor devils who had

eaten nothing for forty hours. And yet a supper we often thought of with

regret, for it was the last time that we were given any bread."

Ten minutes later twelve hammocks were distributed to the prisoners; but

Pichegru, Ramel, Villot and Dessonville received none.

"And where are we to sleep?" asked Pichegru.

"Come on deck," replied the voice of the new captain, "and I will see

that you are told." Pichegru and the others who had not received

hammocks did as they were told.

"Put these men in the Lion's Den," said the captain; "that is the

lodging set aside for them."

The Lion's Den is the cell set aside for sailors who are condemned to

death. When the exiles between decks heard this order they gave vent to

angry cries.

"No separation!" they cried. "Put us in that horrible cell with those

gentlemen, or leave them here with us."

Barthélemy and his faithful Letellier--that brave servant who had

refused to leave his master--dashed on deck; and seeing their four

comrades in the clutches of soldiers who were dragging them toward the

cell, they slid rather than climbed down the ladder, and found

themselves in the hold with them.

"Here!" cried the captain from the top of the hatchway; "come back here,

or I will have you driven up with the bayonet." But they lay down.

"There is neither first nor last among us," they retorted; "we are all

guilty or we are all innocent. You must treat us all alike."

The soldiers advanced toward them with bayonets levelled, but they did

not move. It was only when Pichegru and the others insisted upon it that

they returned to the deck. The four were then left in the deepest

darkness in the horrible cell, which was foul with exhalations from the

hold. They had neither hammock nor coverings, and could not lie down,

for the cell was too narrow, nor yet stand up, for it was too low.

The twelve others crowded between decks were not much better off; for

the hatches were closed, and, like their comrades, they had no air and

could not move about.

Toward four o'clock in the morning the captain gave the order to set

sail; and amid the shouts of the crew, the creaking of the rigging, the

roaring of the waves breaking against the corvette, like a sob from the

sides of the vessel itself, came the last cry: "Farewell, France!"

And like an echo from the entrails of the hold the same cry was

repeated, almost unintelligibly, on account of the depths whence it

came: "Farewell, France."

* * * * *

The reader may perhaps wonder that I have dwelt so long upon this

melancholy tale, which would become more melancholy still, were we to

follow the ill-fated exiles to the end of their journey of forty-five

days. But the reader would probably not have my courage, which I owe to

the necessity not of rehabilitating them--I leave to history that

task--but of directing the compassion of future generations toward the

men who sacrificed themselves for France.

It has seemed to me that the old pagan saying, "Woe to the vanquished!"

has always been brutal, and is nothing less than impious in these days

of modernity; and by some instinct of my heart I always incline toward

the vanquished and my sympathies are ever with them.

They who have read my books know that I have described with the same

degree of impartiality and sympathy the demise of Joan of Arc at Rouen

and the passing of Mary Stuart at Fotheringay, the appearance of Charles

I. upon the scaffold at Whitehall and of Marie Antoinette on the Place

de la Révolution.

But there is one peculiarity of historians which I have ever deplored,

and that is that they marvel at the tears a king can shed, without

studying as carefully the burden of agony which oppresses that poor

human machine when dying, when it is supported by the conviction of its

innocence and integrity, whether it belong to the middle or even the

lower classes of society.

Such were these men whose sufferings I have endeavored to describe, and

for whom we find not a single historian expressing regret, and who, by

the clever expedient adopted by their persecutors of confusing them with

men like Collot d'Herbois and Billaud-Varennes, were first despoiled of

the sympathy of their contemporaries, and then cheated of their

inheritance of the compassion of posterity.

THE EIGHTH CRUSADE

When we announced to you, dear readers, the importance in matter of size

alone of our novel of "The Whites and the Blues," that is to say, when

we warned you that it would comprise a certain number of volumes, we

said at the same time that it was the sequel of "The Companions of

Jehu."

But as our plan comprised the description of the great events of the end

of the last century and the beginning of this one, from 1793 to

1815--that is to say, to offer you a panorama of the twenty-two years of

our history--we have filled nearly three volumes with descriptions of

the principal crises of the Revolution, and have only reached the year

1799, in which our story of "The Companions of Jehu" begins.

If several of our characters, who play parts in that novel also appear

in "The Whites and the Blues," it will not be surprising if at five or

six points of the fresh episode upon which we are about to enter, the

two narratives coincide, and if some of the chapters of the first book

are repeated naturally enough in the second, since the events are not

only on parallel lines, but are often identical.

Once we have passed the execution of Morgan and his companions, our

novel will in reality become a sequel to "The Companions of Jehu," since

the third and only remaining brother of the family of Sainte-Hermine

becomes the hero and principal personage of the volumes which remain to

be published under the title of "The Empire."

We give this explanation, dear readers, that you may not be surprised at

this coincidence between the two books; and if we dared to ask so much

at your hands, we would beg you to read again "The Companions of Jehu"

when reading the "Eighth Crusade."

Do I need to add, dear readers, that this new work is the most strictly

historical of any that I have undertaken, and was conceived, composed

and written in pursuance of a great object; that, namely, of obtaining

the perusal of ten volumes of history under the guise of ten volumes of

romance? The events related in "The Whites and the Blues" are the most

important of our age; and it is essential that our people, who have

played such a leading rôle for the last seventy years in the affairs of

Europe, and who are called upon to play a still greater part, should

know these grand pages of our annals as they deserve to be known.

Then when restorations follow revolutions, and revolutions follow

restorations, when each party, at the moment of its elevation, raises

statues to those who represent it--statues destined to be cast down by

the opposite party, only to give place to others--feeble minds and

short-sighted visions falter before all these great men of the moment,

who become traitors, and whom their contemporaries find no more

difficulty in dishonoring than they did in exalting. It is therefore

well for a keener eye and a more impartial mind to say: "This is plaster

and this is marble; this is lead and this gold."

There are statues which are thrown from their pedestals and which rise

again of themselves. There are, on the contrary, those which fall of

themselves and which are shattered in their fall. Mirabeau, after having

been carried to the Pantheon with great pomp, has no statue to-day.

Louis XVI., after being tossed into the common ditch, has his memorial

chapel.

Perhaps posterity has been rather severe with Mirabeau, and equally

lenient toward Louis XVI., but we must bow alike before its severity and

its indulgence. And yet, without envying Louis XVI. his memorial chapel,

we would like to see a statue erected to Mirabeau. The more guilty of

the two, in our opinion, was not he who sold but he who bought.

CHAPTER I

SAINT-JEAN-D'ACRE

On the 7th of April, 1799, the promontory on which Saint-Jean-d'Acre is

built, the ancient Ptolemais, seemed to be wrapped in as much thunder

and lightning as was Mount Sinai on the day when the Lord appeared to

Moses from the burning bush.

Whence came those reports which shook the coast of Syria as with an

earthquake? Whence came that smoke which covered the Gulf of Carmel with

a cloud as thick as though Mount Elias had become a burning volcano?

The dream of one of those men, who with a few words change the whole

destiny of the world, was accomplished. We are mistaken; we should have

said, had vanished. But perhaps it had vanished only to give place to a

reality of which this man, ambitious as he was, had never dared to

dream.

* * * * *

On the 10th of September, 1797, when the conqueror of Italy heard at

Passeriano of the 18th Fructidor and the promulgation of the law which

condemned two of the directors, fifty-four deputies, and a hundred and

forty-eight private individuals to exile, he fell into a profound

revery.

He was doubtless calculating, in his mind, the influence which would

accrue to him from this _coup d'état_, which his hand had directed

although Augereau's had alone been visible. He was walking with his

secretary, Bourrienne, in the beautiful park of the palace. Suddenly he

raised his head and said without any apparent reference to what had gone

before: "Assuredly, Europe is a mole-hill. There has never been a great

empire or a great revolution save in the East, where there are six

hundred millions of men."

Then when Bourrienne, totally unprepared for this outburst, looked at

him in astonishment, he seemed to lose himself again in revery.

On the 1st of January, 1798, Bonaparte--who had been recognized in his

box, in which he was trying to conceal himself, at the first performance

of "Horatius Coclès," and saluted with an ovation and cries of "Long

live Bonaparte!" which shook the building three times--returned to his

house in the Rue Chantereine (newly named the Rue de la Victoire)

wrapped in melancholy, and said to Bourrienne, to whom he always

confided his gloomy thoughts:

"Believe me, Bourrienne, nobody remembers anything in Paris. If I should

do nothing for six months I should be lost. One reputation in this

Babylon replaces another; they will not see me three times at the

theatre before they will cease to look at me."

Again, on the 29th of the same month, he said to Bourrienne, still

absorbed in the same dream: "Bourrienne, I will not stay here; there is

nothing to be done. If I do remain I am done for; everything goes to

seed in France. I have already exhausted my glory. This poor little

Europe cannot furnish enough; _I must go to the East_."

Finally, when he was walking down the Rue Sainte-Anne, with Bourrienne,

about a fortnight before his departure on the 18th of April, his

secretary, to whom he had not spoken a word since they left the Rue

Chantereine, in order to break the silence which annoyed him, said:

"Then you have really decided to leave France, general?"

"Yes," replied Bonaparte, "I asked to be one of them, and they refused

me. If I stay here I shall have to overthrow them and make myself king.

The nobles would never consent to that; I have sounded the ground and

the time has not yet come. I should be alone. I must dazzle the people.

We will go to Egypt, Bourrienne."

Therefore it was not to communicate with Tippoo-Sahib across Asia, and

to attack England in India, that Bonaparte left Europe.

"I must dazzle the people." In those words lay the true motive for his

departure.

* * * * *

On the 3d of May, 1798, he ordered all the generals to embark their

troops. On the 4th he left Paris. On the 8th he reached Toulon. On the

19th he went aboard the admiral's vessel, the "Orient." On the 25th he

sighted Leghorn and the island of Elba. On the 13th of June he took

Malta. On the 19th he set sail again. On the 3d of July he took

Alexandria by assault. On the 13th he won the battle of Chebrouïss. On

the 21st he crushed the Mamelukes at the Pyramids. On the 25th he

entered Cairo. On the 14th of August he learned of the disaster of

Aboukir. On the 24th of December he started, with the members of the

Institute, to visit the remains of the Suez Canal. On the 28th he drank

at the fountains of Moses, and, like Pharaoh, was almost drowned in the

Red Sea. On the 1st of January, 1799, he planned the expedition into

Syria. He had conceived the idea six months earlier.

At that time he wrote to Kléber:

If the English continue to overrun the Mediterranean, they will

perhaps force us to do greater things than we at first intended.

There was a vague rumor concerning an expedition which the Sultan of

Damascus was sending against the French, in which Djezzar Pasha,

surnamed "The Butcher," because of his cruelty, led the advance-guard.

The rumor had taken definite shape. Djezzar had advanced by Gaza as far

as El-Arich, and had massacred the few French soldiers who were there in

the fortress.

Among his young ordnance officers, Bonaparte had the brothers Mailly de

Château-Renaud. He sent the younger with a flag of truce to Djezzar,

who, in defiance of military law, took him prisoner. This was a

declaration of war. Bonaparte, with his customary rapidity of decision,

determined to destroy the advance-guard of the Ottoman Empire.

In case of success, he himself would tell later what were his hopes. If

repulsed, he would raze the walls of Gaza, Jaffa, and Acre, ravage the

country and destroy all the supplies, making it impossible for an army,

even a native one, to cross the desert.

On the 11th of February, 1799, Bonaparte entered Syria at the head of

twelve thousand men. He had with him that galaxy of gallant men who

gravitated around him during the first and most brilliant part of his

life.

He had Kléber, the handsomest and bravest horseman in the army. He had

Murat, who disputed this double title with Kléber. He had Junot, who was

such a remarkable shot that he could split a dozen balls in succession

on the point of a knife. He had Lannes, who had already earned his title

of Duc de Montebello, but had not yet assumed it. He had Reynier, who

was destined to decide the victory of Heliopolis. He had Caffarelli, who

was doomed to lie in that trench which he had dug.

And in subordinate positions he had for aides-de-camp Eugene de

Beauharnais, our young friend of Strasbourg, who had brought about the

marriage between Josephine and Bonaparte by going to ask the latter for

his father's sword. He had Croisier, gloomy and taciturn ever since he

had faltered in an encounter with the Arabs and the word "coward" had

escaped Bonaparte's lips. He had the elder of the two Maillys, who was

determined to deliver or avenge his brother. He had the young Sheik of

Aher, chief of the Druses, whose name, if not his power, extended from

the Dead Sea to the Mediterranean.

And, finally, he had an old acquaintance of ours, Roland de Montrevel,

whose habitual intrepidity had, since the day of his capture at Cairo,

been doubled by that strange desire for death which we have seen him

display in "The Companions of Jehu."

On the 17th of February the army reached El-Arich. The soldiers had

suffered greatly from thirst during the journey. Only once did they find

refreshment and amusement at the end of their day's stage. That was at

Messoudiah, or "The Fortunate Spot," on the shores of the Mediterranean,

at a place composed of small dunes of fine sand. Here chance led a

soldier to imitate Moses' miracle. As he thrust his stick into the

ground, the water gushed forth as from an artesian well. The soldier

tasted it, and finding it excellent, he called his comrades and shared

his discovery with them. Every one then punched his own hole and had his

own well. Nothing more was needed to restore the soldiers to

cheerfulness.

El-Arich surrendered at the first summons. On the 28th of February the

green and fertile plains of Syria came in sight. At the same time,

mountains and valleys, recalling those of Europe, could be plainly

discerned through a light rain--a rare thing in the East.

On the 1st of March they camped at Ramleh--the ancient Rama, where

Rachel gave way to her great despair, which the Bible describes in this

nobly pathetic verse:

In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentations and weepings and

great mourning; Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be

comforted because they were not.

Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and Joseph passed by Rama on their way to Egypt.

The church which the monks gave Bonaparte for a hospital was built on

the very spot where the holy family stopped to rest.

The well whose fresh, pure water slaked the thirst of the whole army was

the very same which, seventeen hundred and ninety-nine years before, had

refreshed the holy fugitives. He also was from Rama, that disciple

Joseph, whose pious hand wrapped the body of our Lord Jesus Christ in

the shroud.

Perhaps not one man in the whole vast multitude knew the sacred

tradition. But one thing they did know, and that was that they were not

more than eighteen miles from Jerusalem.

As they walked beneath the olive trees which are perhaps the most

beautiful in all the East, and which the soldiers ruthlessly cut down to

make their bivouac fires, Bourrienne asked Bonaparte: "General, shall

you not go to Jerusalem?"

"Oh, no," he replied, carelessly; "Jerusalem is not within my line of

operations. I do not care to get into trouble with the mountaineers on

these bad roads; and then on the other side of the mountain I should be

attacked by a large body of cavalry. I have no ambition to emulate the

fate of Crassus."

Crassus, it will be remembered, was massacred by the Parthians.

There is this that is strange in Bonaparte's life, that while he was at

one time within eighteen miles of Jerusalem (the cradle of Christ) and

at another within eighteen miles of Rome (the cradle of the Papacy), he

had no desire to see either Rome or Jerusalem.

CHAPTER II

THE PRISONERS

Two days before, within a mile of Gaza (which means in Arabic "treasure"

and in Hebrew "strong")--the same Gaza whose gates were carried away by

Samson, who died with three thousand Philistines beneath the ruins of

the temple which he had overthrown--they had met Abdallah, Pasha of

Damascus.

He was at the head of his cavalry. That pertained to Murat's department.

Murat took a hundred men from the thousand which he commanded, and with

his riding-whip in his hand--for when opposed to the Mussulman, Arab,

and Maugrabin cavalry he rarely deigned to draw his sabre--he charged

them vigorously. Abdallah turned and fled toward the town. The army

followed him and took up its position on the opposite side.

They arrived at Ramleh the day after this skirmish. From Ramleh they

marched upon Jaffa. To the soldiers' great satisfaction, the clouds

gathered above their heads for the second time, and the rain fell. A

deputation was sent to Bonaparte in the name of the army, asking that

they be allowed to take a bath. Bonaparte granted the permission and

ordered a halt. Then each soldier pulled off his clothes and revelled in

the luxury of feeling the cool rain upon his burning body. Then the army

started again, refreshed and joyous, and singing the "Marseillaise" with

one accord.

Abdallah's Mamelukes and cavalry no more dared wait for the French than

they had dared wait at Gaza. They returned to their city firm in their

belief that every Mussulman is safe so long as he is behind a wall. This

garrison of Jaffa was composed of a singular medley, who, drunk with

fanaticism, were now about to set the best army in the world at

defiance.

There were representatives there from all parts of the East--from the

extreme end of Africa to the uttermost confines of Asia. There were

Maugrabins with their long white coats. There were Albanians, with their

long guns mounted in silver and inlaid with coral. There were Kurds,

with their long lances ornamented with ostrich plumes. There were

Aleppians, who all wore, either on one cheek or the other, the mark of

the famous button of Aleppo. There were men of Damascus with curved

swords of such finely tempered steel that they could cut a silk

handkerchief floating in the air. There were Nataloians, Karamanians,

and negroes.

On the 3d they arrived before the walls of Jaffa, and on the 4th the

city was invested. On the same day Murat made a reconnoissance around

the ramparts to determine on which side it would be best to attack. On

the 7th everything was in readiness to bombard the city.

Bonaparte desired to try conciliatory measures before beginning the

bombardment. He knew the meaning of a struggle against such a

population, even were he victorious.

He dictated the following summons:

God is merciful and pitiful.

General Bonaparte, whom the Arabs have surnamed the "Sultan of

Fire," charges me to tell you that Djezzar Pasha commenced

hostilities in Egypt by taking the fortress of El-Arich; that God,

who is always on the side of justice, gave the victory to the

French army, who recaptured the fortress, from which he desires to

drive the troops of Djezzar Pasha, who ought never to have entered

it; that Jaffa is surrounded on all sides; that the batteries will

begin in two hours to batter down the walls with shot and shell,

and destroy the defences; that his heart is touched by the thought

of the harm that would befall the city and its inhabitants should

it be taken by assault; that he offers a safe-conduct and

protection to the garrison and the inhabitants of the city, and

that he will consequently postpone the bombardment until seven

o'clock in the morning.

The summons was addressed to Abou-Saib, the governor of Jaffa. Roland

held out his hand to take it.

"What are you doing?" asked Bonaparte.

"Do you not need a messenger?" replied the young man, laughing; "it may

as well be I as any one else."

"No," replied Bonaparte; "on the contrary, it had better be any one else

than you, and better a Mussulman than a Christian."

"Why so, general?"

"Because while Abou-Saib may perhaps cut off the head of a Mussulman, he

would most certainly cut off that of a Christian."

"All the more reason," replied Roland, shrugging his shoulders.

"Enough," said Bonaparte: "I do not wish it."

Roland went off into a corner pouting like a spoiled child.

Then Bonaparte said to his dragoman: "Ask whether there is any Turk or

Arab, in short any Mussulman, who will undertake to deliver this

despatch."

The dragoman repeated the question aloud.

A Mameluke from the dromedary corps came forward.

"I will," said he.

The dragoman looked at Bonaparte.

"Tell him what he risks," said the general-in-chief.

"The Sultan of Fire wishes you to know that you risk your life in taking

this message."

"What is written is written," replied the Mussulman, and he held out his

hand.

He was given a white flag and a trumpeter. They approached the town on

horseback, and the gates opened to receive them. Ten minutes later there

was a great commotion on the ramparts just in front of the general's

camp. The trumpeter appeared, dragged roughly along by two Albanians.

They ordered him to sound his trumpet to attract the attention of the

French army.

He sounded the call. Just as all eyes were fixed upon the walls, a man

approached holding in his hand a severed head wearing a turban. He

extended his arm over the ramparts; the turban fell off, and the head

dropped at the foot of the wall. It belonged to the Mussulman who had

carried the summons. Ten minutes later the trumpeter came out of the

same gate through which he had entered, but he was alone.

The next morning at seven o'clock, as Bonaparte had said, six pieces

began to thunder one after the other. At four o'clock the breach was

practicable, and Bonaparte ordered the assault. He looked around for

Roland to give him the command of one of the regiments which were to

enter the breach. Roland was not there.

The carabineers of the twenty-second light brigade and the chasseurs of

the same brigade, supported by the artillery and the engineers, rushed

forward to the assault, commanded by General Rambeau, Adjutant-general

Nethervood, and Vernois. They all mounted to the breach; and in spite of

the fusillade which met them in front, and the showers of grape from the

few cannon which had not been silenced, and which took them from behind,

they waged a terrible fight over the fallen tower.

The struggle lasted for a quarter of an hour, and the besiegers had not

been able to enter the breach, nor had the besieged succeeded in forcing

them back. All the efforts on both sides seemed to be concentrated on

the spot, when suddenly Roland appeared upon the dismantled tower

holding a Turkish standard and followed by some fifty men. He waved the

standard crying: "The city is taken!"

This is what had happened: That morning about six o'clock, the hour of

dawn in the East, Roland had gone down to his bath in the sea, and there

had discovered a sort of breach in the angle made by a wall and a tower.

He had assured himself that the breach led into the city; then he took

his bath and returned to the army just as the bombardment had begun.

There, as he was well known to be one of Bonaparte's privileged

favorites, and at the same time one of the most recklessly daring

officers in the army, cries of "Captain Roland! Captain Roland!"

resounded on all sides.

Roland knew what that meant. It meant, "Haven't you something impossible

to attempt? Here we are."

"Fifty volunteers!" he cried.

A hundred offered themselves.

"Fifty!" he repeated.

And he selected the fifty, taking every other man in order not to hurt

their feelings. Then he took two trumpeters and two drummers, and

leading the way himself, he conducted them through the hole he had found

into the city. His fifty men followed him.

They met a party of about one hundred men carrying a flag. They fell

upon them and harried them with their bayonets. Roland seized the flag,

and it was that one which he had waved from the ramparts. He was hailed

by shouts from the whole army; but he thought the time had now come to

use his drums and trumpets.

The whole garrison was at the breach, not expecting any rear attack,

when they suddenly heard the drums beside them and the French trumpets

behind them. At the same time, two discharges of musketry and a

hailstorm of bullets fell among the besieged. They turned, only to see

gun-barrels reflecting the rays of the sun and tri-colored plumes waving

in the wind in every direction. The smoke drifting toward them on the

sea-breeze concealed the small number of the French rear attacking

party. They believed that they had been betrayed. A frightful panic

ensued, and they deserted the breach.

But Roland had sent ten of his men to open one of the gates. General

Lannes's division poured in, and the besieged found French bayonets

where they had thought to find the road clear for flight. By a reaction

common to ferocious people, who, never giving quarter, never expect any,

they seized their arms with renewed fury, and the combat began again

with all the appearance of a massacre. Bonaparte, being ignorant of what

was happening within the walls--seeing the smoke rising along the

ramparts and hearing the rattle of musketry, while no one returned, not

even the wounded--sent Eugene de Beauharnais and Croisier to see what

was going on, bidding them to return and report at once.

They both wore the emblem of their rank, the aide-de-camp's scarf, on

their arm. They had been impatiently awaiting the word which would

permit of their taking part in the fight. They entered the town at a run

and penetrated to the very heart of the carnage. They were recognized as

envoys of the commander-in-chief, and as they were supposed to be the

bearers of a message the firing ceased for a minute. A few of the

Albanians could speak French. One of them cried: "If our lives are

spared we will surrender at once. If not, we will fight until the last

one of us is killed."

The two aides-de-camp had no means of knowing Bonaparte's secrets. They

were young and they were actuated by sentiments of humanity. Without

authority they promised the poor fellows that their lives should be

spared. The firing ceased, and the prisoners were taken to the camp.

There were four thousand of them.

As for the soldiers, they knew their rights. The town had been taken by

assault. After the massacre came the pillage.

CHAPTER III

THE CARNAGE

Bonaparte was walking in front of his tent with Bourrienne, impatiently

awaiting news, and having no other of his intimates at hand, when he saw

two troops of armed men leaving the town by different gates. One of them

was led by Croisier, and the other by Eugene de Beauharnais. Their young

faces shone with joy.

Croisier, who had not smiled since he had had the misfortune to

displease the commander-in-chief, was smiling now, for he hoped that

this fine prize would conciliate the master. Bonaparte understood the

whole thing. He grew pale, and said sorrowfully: "What do you suppose I

am going to do with those men? Have I food to give them? Have I ships to

send the wretched creatures to France or Egypt?"

The two young men halted ten feet from him. They saw by the rigid

expression of his face that they had made a mistake.

"What have you there?" he asked.

Croisier dared not reply, but Eugene spoke for both.

"As you see, general, prisoners."

"Did I tell you to take any prisoners?"

"You told us to stop the carnage," replied Eugene, timidly.

"Yes," replied the general, "of women, children, and old men I did; but

not of armed soldiers. Do you know that you have forced me to commit a

crime?"

The young men understood and retired in dismay. Croisier was weeping.

Eugene tried to console him; but he shook his head and said: "It is all

over with me; the first opportunity that offers I shall let myself be

shot."

Before deciding upon the fate of the unfortunate prisoners, Bonaparte

decided to call a council of the generals. But soldiers and generals had

bivouacked outside the town. The soldiers did not stop until they were

weary. Besides the four thousand prisoners, they left nearly five

thousand dead. The pillage of the houses lasted all night. From time to

time shots echoed through the night. Dull cries of anguish resounded

incessantly in the streets, the houses, and the mosques.

They came from soldiers who were dragged from their places of

concealment and slaughtered; by inhabitants who were trying to defend

their treasures; by husbands and fathers who were striving to defend

their wives and daughters from the brutality of the soldiers.

But the vengeance of Heaven was hidden beneath all this cruelty. The

plague was in Jaffa, and the army carried the germs of it away with

them.

The prisoners were, in the first place, ordered to sit down together in

front of the tents. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Their

faces were downcast, more from dread of what was in store for them than

from anger. They had seen Bonaparte's face darken when he perceived

them; and they had heard, although they had not understood it, the

reprimand which he had bestowed upon the young soldiers. But what they

had not understood they had divined.

Some of them ventured to say, "I am hungry"; others, "I am thirsty."

They brought them all water and gave each of them a piece of bread,

taken from the soldiers' rations. This reassured them a trifle.

As fast as the generals returned they were bidden to repair at once to

the general-in-chief's tent. They deliberated a long time without

arriving at any decision. On the following day the diurnal reports of

the generals of division came in. All complained of insufficient

rations. The only ones who had eaten and drunk their fill were those

who had entered the town during the fight and were therefore entitled to

take part in the pillage. But they constituted merely a fourth of the

army. All the rest complained at having to share their bread with the

enemy, who had been rescued from legitimate vengeance; since, according

to the laws of war, Jaffa having been taken by storm, all the soldiers

who were within its walls should have perished by the sword.

The council assembled once more. Five questions were proposed for its

deliberation.

"Should the men be sent to Egypt?"

But this would require a large escort, and the army was already

over-weak to defend itself against the deadly hostility of the country.

Besides that, how could they and their escort be fed until they reached

Cairo, when they would be obliged to travel through the enemy's country,

previously laid waste by the army which had just passed through it and

which had no food to give the prisoners to start with.

"Should they put them on shipboard?"

Where were the ships? Where could they be found? The sea was like a

desert, or at least it was dotted by no friendly sails.

"Should they be restored to liberty?"

In that case they would go straight to Saint-Jean-d'Acre, to reinforce

the Pasha, or else into the mountains of Nablos. Then in every ravine

they would be assailed by an invisible army of sharpshooters.

"Should they incorporate them, disarmed as they were, in the Republican

army?"

But the provisions, already scanty for ten thousand men, would be still

more inadequate for fourteen thousand. Then they ran great danger from

such comrades in a hostile country. At the first opportunity they would

deal out death for the life which had been left them. What is a dog of a

Christian to a Turk? Is it not a pious and meritorious act in the eyes

of the Prophet to deal death to the infidel?

Bonaparte rose as they were about to propose the fifth condition.

"Let us wait until to-morrow," he said.

He himself could not have told what he expected to gain by waiting. It

was for one of those strange chances, which sometimes prevent a great

crime, and which, when they intervene, are called the interposition of

Providence.

He waited in vain. On the fourth day, the question, which they had not

dared to ask had to be confronted:

"Should the prisoners be shot?"

The murmurs were increasing, and the evil was growing. The soldiers

might at any moment throw themselves upon the prisoners, and thus lend

an appearance of revolt and assassination to that which was in reality

an outcome of the necessities of the case.

The sentence was unanimous, with the exception of a single vote. One of

those present did not vote at all. The unfortunates were to be shot.

Bonaparte hastened from his tent and gazed searchingly out to sea. A

tempest of human emotions was surging in his breast. He had not at that

period acquired the stoicism born of numerous battlefields. The man who

later looked upon Austerlitz, Eylau, and Moscow without moving a muscle,

was not sufficiently familiarized with death to throw such prey to him

at one fell swoop without a tremor of remorse. On the vessel which had

conveyed him to Egypt his pity and compassion had astonished everybody.

During such a journey it was impossible to avoid occasional accidents,

or that some men should not fall overboard. This accident occurred

several times during the crossing on board the "Orient." At such times

only was it possible to compass all the human feeling in Bonaparte's

heart.

As soon as he heard the cry, "Man overboard!" he would dart up on deck

if he were not already there and order a boat to be lowered. From that

moment he would not rest until the man was found and saved. Bourrienne

had orders to reward with great liberality the men who had undertaken

the task of rescue, and if there were among them a sailor who deserved

punishment for neglect of duty, he pardoned him and rewarded him with

money besides.

One dark night the splash of a body falling into the water was heard.

Bonaparte as usual rushed from his cabin to the deck, and ordered a boat

to be lowered. The sailors, who knew that not only were they doing a

good deed, but that they would be rewarded for it afterward, threw

themselves into the boat with their customary activity and zeal. After

five minutes of ceaseless questioning on Bonaparte's part, "Has the man

been saved?" he was rewarded with a shout of laughter.

The man who had fallen into the water was a quarter of beef from the

store-room.

"Double the reward, Bourrienne," said Bonaparte; "it might have been a

man, and the next time they might think it was merely a quarter of

beef."

The order for this execution must emanate from him. He delayed giving

it, and the time was passing. Finally he called for his horse, leaped

into his saddle, took an escort of twenty men, and rode away, crying:

"Do it!"

He dared not say, "Fire!"

A scene like that which ensued cannot be described.

Those great massacres which occurred during the course of antiquity have

no place in modern history. Out of the four thousand a few escaped,

because, having thrown themselves into the water, they were able to swim

out to some reefs where they were beyond the range of the musketry.

Neither Eugene de Beauharnais nor Croisier dared show themselves before

Bonaparte until they reached Saint-Jean-d'Acre and were compelled to

take their orders from him.

The French were encamped before Saint-Jean-d'Acre on the 18th. In spite

of the English frigates lying in the harbor, some of the young officers,

among them the Sheik of Aher, Roland and the Comte de Mailly, asked

permission to go and bathe in the roadstead. The permission was

accorded.

When they were diving De Mailly found a leather sack, which was floating

under water. The bathers were curious to know what it contained and swam

with it to the bank. It was tied up with a cord, and apparently

concealed a human body.

The cord was untied, the sack opened, and Mailly recognized the head and

body of his brother, who had been sent a month before with a flag of

truce to Djezzar Pasha, who had beheaded him when he perceived the dust

made by the advance-guard of the French.

CHAPTER IV

FROM ANCIENT DAYS TO OUR OWN

Since it is our good fortune to have readers sufficiently intelligent to

encourage us to write a book in which romance is relegated to the second

place, we shall doubtless be permitted to detail not only the modern,

but also the ancient history of the places which we visit with our

heroes. There is much charm for the poet, the historian, even the

dreamer, in treading upon soil composed of the ashes of past

generations; and nowhere more than in the region we are now treading do

we find traces of those great historical catastrophes which, becoming

less substantial and fainter in outline as the years roll past, finally

disappear like ruins and the spectres of ruins amid the ever-thickening

shadows of the past.

This is true of the city which we have just left, throbbing with shrieks

of anguish, overflowing with carnage and blood, with its walls battered

to pieces and its houses in flames. The rapid movement of our narrative,

and our desire to enter modern Jaffa with our young conqueror, have

hitherto prevented us from telling you what manner of place was the

Jaffa of olden days.

Jaffa in Hebrew signifies beauty. Joppa in Phœnician means height.

Jaffa is to the eastern gulf of the Mediterranean what Jiddah is to the

Red Sea. It is the city of pilgrims. Every Christian pilgrim on his way

to visit the tomb of Christ takes in Jaffa on the road. Every Mussulman

_hadji_ who goes to Mecca to visit the Prophet's tomb takes in Jiddah on

his way.

When we read the great works of to-day on Egypt--works in which the most

learned men of the day have united their efforts--we are astonished to

find so few of these luminous points which, placed in the dark night of

the past, illuminate and attract the traveller like beacons.

We are about to attempt what they have neglected to do.

The author who assigns to Jaffa (the Joppa of the Phœnicians) the most

ancient place in history is Pomponius Mela, who affirms that it was

built before the deluge.

_Est Joppe ante diluvium condita._

And Joppa must have built before the deluge, since the historian

Josephus, in his "Antiquities," says, with Berosius and Nicolas of

Damascus, not exactly that the Ark was built at Joppa--for that would be

in contradiction with the Bible--but that it stopped there. They assure

us that in their time fragments of it were still shown to incredulous

travellers, and that they used as a remedy, which was efficacious in all

cases as a universal panacea, the dust of the tar which was used to coat

the Ark.

It was at Joppa, if we may believe Pliny, that Andromeda was chained to

the rocks, to be devoured by the sea-monster; there she was delivered by

Perseus, mounted on the Chimera and armed with the head of Medusa, which

turned the beholder into stone.

Pliny affirms that during the reign of Adrian the holes through which

Andromeda's chain had been passed were still visible; and Saint

Jerome--a witness who cannot be accused of partiality--declares that he

saw them.

The skeleton of the sea-monster, forty feet long, was thought by some of

the people of Joppa to be that of the divinity Ceto. The water of the

fountain in which Perseus bathed after killing the monster was ever

afterward tinged with his blood. Pausanias tells us so, and declares

that he saw the rose-tinged water with his own eyes. Ceto, a goddess of

whom Pliny speaks (_colitur fabulosa Ceto_), and who is called Derceto

by historians, was the name which tradition gave to the unknown mother

of Semiramis.

Diodorus relates the pretty fable of the unknown mother with the quaint

charm which makes poetry of this fable without robbing it of its

sensuousness.

"There is," he says, "in Syria a city called Ascalon, overlooking a deep

lake in which fish abound, and near it is a temple dedicated to the

celebrated goddess whom the Syrians call Derceto.

"She has a head and a face like a woman's; all the rest of the body is

that of a fish. The learned men of the nation say that Venus, having

been offended by Derceto, inspired her with a passion for a young priest

as intense as that which she had awakened in Phedrus and Sappho. Derceto

had a daughter by him; but she repented so bitterly of her fault that

she caused the youth to disappear, abandoned the infant in a desert

place full of rocks, and threw herself into the lake, where her body was

transformed into that of a siren. For this reason the Syrians worship

the fish as gods, and abstain from eating them.

"But the little girl was saved and fed by doves, who came in great

numbers and made their nests among the rocks where she had been left to

die.

"A shepherd found her and brought her up with as much care as if she had

been his own daughter, and named her Semiramis, or 'the daughter of the

doves.'"

If we may believe Diodorus, it is to this daughter of the doves, the

haughty Semiramis, the wife and murderess of Ninus, who fortified

Babylon and laid out those magnificent gardens, the envy and the

admiration of the ancient world, that the Orientals owe the splendid

costume which they wear to this day. When she had reached the height of

her power, having conquered Egyptian Arabia, a part of Ethiopia, Libya,

and all Asia as far as the Indus, she felt the need of inventing a

costume for her travels which should be at once convenient and elegant,

in which she could not only perform the ordinary duties of life, but

also ride horseback and fight. This costume was adopted by all the

people whom she conquered.

"She was so beautiful," says Valerius Maximus, "that one day when an

insurrection broke out in her capital, just as she was at her toilet,

she had only to show herself, half naked and with her hair unbound, to

restore order."

Perhaps we may find the reason for Venus' hatred of Derceto in Higinus.

"The Syrian goddess who was worshipped at Hierapolis," he says, "was

Venus. An egg fell from heaven into the Euphrates; the fishes brought it

to the bank, where it was hatched by a dove. Venus issued from it, and

became the goddess of the Syrians, while Jupiter, at her request, placed

the fishes in the sky; and she in gratitude harnessed her nurses to her

chariot."

The famous temple of Dagon, where the statue of the god was found

overturned before the Ark with both hands broken, was situated in the

city of Azoth, between Joppa and Ascalon.

Read the Bible, that great treasure-house of history and poetry, and you

will see that the cedars of Lebanon, brought for the building of the

Temple of Solomon, came from the gates of Joppa. You will see that the

prophet Jonah came to the gates of Joppa to embark for Tarsus when he

was flying from the face of the Lord.

Then, passing from the Bible to Josephus, whose writings may be called

the continuation of it, you will see that Judas Maccabeus, to avenge his

two hundred brethren who had been treacherously slain by the

inhabitants, came with sword and firebrand and set fire to the ships

anchored in the port, and put to death with the sword all who had

escaped the fire.

We read in the Acts of the Apostles as follows:

There was at Joppa a certain disciple named Tabitha, which by

interpretation is called Dorcas: this woman was full of good works

and alms deeds which she did.

And it came to pass in those days that she was sick, and died:

whom when they had washed they laid her in an upper chamber.

And for as much as Lydda was nigh to Joppa, and the disciples had

heard that Peter was there, they sent unto him two men, desiring

him that he would not delay to come to them.

Then Peter arose and went to them, when he was come, they brought

him to the upper chamber: and all the widows stood by him weeping,

and showing the coats which Dorcas had made when she was with

them.

But Peter put them all forth, and kneeled down and prayed; and

turned to the body and said, "Tabitha, arise!" And she opened her

eyes: and when she saw Peter, she sat up.

And he gave her his hand and lifted her up, and when he had called

the saints and widows he presented her alive.

And it was known throughout all Joppa; and many believed in the

Lord.

And it came to pass that he tarried many days in Joppa with one

Simon, a tanner.

It was there that the servants of the centurion Cornelius found him when

they came to beg him to go to Cesarea. It was in Simon's house that he

had the vision bidding him carry the Gospel to the Gentiles.

At the time of the rising of the Jews against Rome, Sextus besieged

Joppa, took it by storm and burned it. Eight thousand of the inhabitants

perished; but it was soon rebuilt. As the new city was constantly

sending forth pirates, who infested the coasts of Syria and made

expeditions as far as Greece and even Egypt, the Emperor Vespasian took

it again, razed it to the ground from the first to the last house, and

built a fortress on its site.

But in his Jewish wars, Josephus relates that a new city soon sprang up

at the foot of the fortress of Vespasian, which became the seat of a

bishopric, or rather of a bishop, from the reign of Constantine, A.D.

330, until the invasion of the Arabs in 636. This bishopric was

established during the First Crusade, and made subject to the

metropolitan See of Cesarea. Finally it was converted into a county, and

embellished and fortified by Baldwin I., Emperor of Constantinople.

Saint Louis also came to Joppa; and Joinville, his ingenuous historian,

tells of the sojourn which he made with the Comte de Japhe, as the good

chevalier Frenchifies the name.

This Comte de Japhe, who was Gautier de Brienne, did his best to clean

and whitewash the city, which was in such a deplorable state that Saint

Louis was ashamed of it, and took it upon himself to build its walls and

beautify its churches. Saint Louis received the news of his mother's

death while there.

"When the sainted king," writes Joinville, "saw the archbishop of Tyre

and his confessor entering his apartments with expressions of sorrow, he

asked them to go with him to his chapel, which was his refuge from all

the ills of the world.

"Then when he had heard the fatal news, he fell upon his knees, and with

clasped hands he exclaimed, weeping: 'I thank thee, O God, that thou

didst lend my mother to me, while it seemed best to thee, and for that,

in thy good pleasure, thou hast taken her again to thee. It is true that

I loved her above all other creatures, and she deserved it; but since

thou hast taken her from me, may thy holy name be blessed for

evermore.'"

The works erected by Saint Louis were destroyed in 1268 by the Pasha of

Egypt, Bibas, who levelled the citadel to the ground, and sent the wood

and precious marbles of it which it was composed to Cairo to build his

mosque.

Finally, when Monconys visited Palestine, he found at Jaffa only a

castle and three caves hollowed out of a rock. We have told of its

condition when Bonaparte entered it, and in what state he left it.

We shall return once more to this town, which to Bonaparte was neither

Jaffa the Beautiful, nor Jaffa the Lofty, but Jaffa the Fatal.

CHAPTER V

SIDNEY SMITH

On the 18th, at daybreak, while the army was crossing the little stream

of the Kerdaneah, on a bridge thrown over it during the night,

Bonaparte, accompanied only by Roland de Montrevel, the Sheik of Aher,

and the Comte de Mailly, whom he was utterly unable to reconcile to his

brother's death, do what he would, ascended a little hill not far from

the town to which he had laid siege.

From its summit he could see the whole country, including not only the

two English vessels, "Tiger" and "Theseus," rocking upon the breast of

the sea, but also the troops of the Pasha, occupying all the gardens

around the city.

"Let all that rabble be dislodged from those gardens," he said, "and

driven back into the town."

As he had addressed no one in particular, all three young men started

off like three hawks in pursuit of the same prey. But he cried in his

harsh voice: "Roland! Sheik of Aher!"

The two young men, when they heard their names, stopped their horses,

which were tugging at their bits, and returned to their places beside

the commander-in-chief. Mailly went on with a hundred sharpshooters, a

like number of grenadiers and voltigeurs, and spurring his horse to a

gallop, charged at their head.

Bonaparte had great confidence in the omens of war. It was for that

reason that he had been so greatly displeased with Croisier's hesitation

during their first engagement with the Bedouins, and had reproached him

so bitterly for it.

He could see the movements of the troops through his glass, which was an

excellent one, from where he stood. He saw Eugene de Beauharnais and

Croisier, who had not dared to speak to him since that unfortunate day

at Jaffa, take command, the former of the grenadiers and the latter of

the sharpshooters, while Mailly, with the utmost deference to his

companions, led the voltigeurs.

If the commander-in-chief was looking for a ready omen he should have

been content. While Roland was impatiently gnawing at his silver mounted

riding-whip, and the Sheik of Aher on the contrary was watching the fray

with all the patience and calmness of an Arab, Bonaparte saw the three

detachments pass through the ruins of a village, a Turkish cemetery, and

a little wood whose freshness plainly showed that it was watered by a

spring, and hurl themselves upon the enemy in spite of the brisk firing

of the Arnauts and the Albanians, whom he recognized by their

magnificent gold embroidered costumes and their long silver-mounted

rifles, and rout them at the first charge.

The firing on the French side began vigorously, and continued with

increasing vigor, while above it they could hear the loud explosion of

the hand-grenades, which the French soldiers threw with their hands, and

with which they tormented the fugitives.

They all arrived about the same time at the foot of the ramparts; but

the posterns being closed behind the Mussulmans, and the walls being

enveloped with a girdle of fire, the three hundred Frenchmen were forced

to beat a retreat, after having killed about one hundred and fifty of

the enemy.

The three young men had displayed marvellous gallantry, and had

performed prodigies of valor in their emulation of each other.

Eugene had killed an Arnaut, who was a head taller than he, in a

hand-to-hand encounter; Mailly had approached within ten paces of a

group which was making a stand, had discharged both barrels of his

pistol at them, and had then rejoined his own men with a single bound.

Croisier, for his part, had sabred two Arabs who had attacked him at the

same time, cutting open the head of one of them and breaking the blade

of his sabre in the breast of the second, and had returned with the

bloody hilt dangling from his wrist.

Bonaparte turned to the Sheik of Aher and said: "Give me your sword in

exchange for mine." And he detached his own sword from his belt and

handed it to the Sheik.

The latter kissed the hilt, and hastily handed him his own.

"Roland," said Bonaparte, "go and present my compliments to Eugene and

De Mailly; as for Croisier, you will simply say to him: 'Here is a sword

which the commander-in-chief has sent you. He has been watching you.'"

Roland set off at a gallop. The young men to whom Bonaparte had sent

these congratulations leaped in their saddles for joy, and embraced each

other. Croisier, like the Sheik of Aher, kissed the hilt of the sword

which had been sent him, threw away the scabbard and broken hilt of the

old one, and put the one Bonaparte had given him at his belt, saying:

"Thank the commander-in-chief for me, and say to him that he will have

reason to be satisfied with me at the first assault."

The entire army had gradually ascended the hill where Bonaparte was

stationed like an equestrian statue. The soldiers shouted with delight

when they saw their comrades drive the Maugrabins before them as the

wind scatters the sand of the sea. Like Bonaparte, the army could see no

great difference between the fortifications of Saint-Jean d'Acre and

those of Jaffa; and, like Bonaparte, they did not doubt that the city

would be taken at the second or third assault.

The French were ignorant that there were two men within the walls of

Saint-Jean d'Acre who were worth more in themselves than a whole army of

Mussulmans.

They were Sidney Smith, the English Admiral who commanded the "Tiger"

and the "Theseus," which were gracefully cradled on the waters of the

Gulf of Carmel, and Colonel Phélippeaux, who had charge of the

defensive works and the fortress of Djezzar the Butcher. Phélippeaux

had been Bonaparte's friend and schoolfellow at Brienne, his rival at

college and in his mathematical successes. Fortune, chance, or accident

had now cast his lot among Bonaparte's foes.

Sidney Smith, whom the exiles of the 18th Fructidor had met at the

Temple, had by a strange freak of fate escaped from his prison and

reached London, where he resumed his place in the English army just at

the time of Bonaparte's departure from Toulon.

It was Phélippeaux who had undertaken the rescue of Sidney Smith, and he

had succeeded in his daring enterprise. False orders had been prepared,

under the pretext of removing the captive from one prison to another. A

stamped fac-simile of the minister of police's signature had been

obtained at a heavy price. From whom? From him perhaps; who knows?

Under the name of Loger, and attired in an adjutant-general's uniform,

Sidney Smith's friend had presented himself at the prison and exhibited

his false order to the clerk. He examined it closely, and was forced to

admit that it was correct in every particular. But he said: "You will

need a guard of at least six men for a prisoner of such importance."

The pretended adjutant-general said: "For a man of such importance I

shall need only his word." Then, turning to the prisoner, he added:

"Commodore, you are a military man as well as I; your parole, that you

will not seek to escape, will suffice for me. If you will give it I

shall need no escort."

And Sidney Smith, like the honorable Englishman that he was, would not

lie even to escape. He replied: "Sir, if it will satisfy you, I will

promise to follow you wherever you may go."

And Adjutant-general Loger escorted Sidney Smith to England. These two

men were now turned loose upon Bonaparte.

Phélippeaux undertook the defence of the fortress as we have said;

Sidney Smith was to provide the arms and the soldiers.

And there, where Bonaparte expected to find only a stupid Turk in

command, as at Gaza and Jaffa, he found all the science of a compatriot,

and all the hatred of an Englishman.

That same evening Bonaparte ordered Sanson, the chief of the engineering

brigade, to reconnoitre the counterscarp. The latter waited until it was

very dark. It was a moonless night well suited to such operations. He

set out alone, traversed the ruined village, and the gardens from which

the Arabs had been dislodged and driven in the morning. Seeing a black

mass ahead which could be nothing else than the fortress, he got down on

his hands and knees to feel the ground step by step. Just as he

discovered a more rapid angle which made him believe that the moat was

without facing, he was discovered by a sentinel whose eyes were probably

accustomed to the darkness, or who in common with other men shared that

propensity of the animals which enables them to see in the dark.

His cry "Who goes there?" rang out in the darkness.

Sanson did not reply. The cry was repeated a second, then a third time;

a shot followed, and the ball shattered the outstretched hand of the

general of the engineers. In spite of his terrible sufferings the

officer made no sound; he crawled back again, thinking that he had

studied the moat sufficiently, and made his report to Bonaparte.

The trench was begun on the following day. They took advantage of the

gardens which were the ancient moats of Ptolemais, whose history we will

relate later, as we did that of Jaffa.

They used an aqueduct which crossed the glacis, and in ignorance of the

fatal support which Djezzar possessed to the undoing of the French, they

gave the trench but three feet of depth.

When the giant Kléber saw the trench he shrugged his shoulders and said

to Bonaparte: "That is a fine trench, general: it will scarcely reach to

my knees."

On the 23d of March Sidney Smith captured the two large vessels which

were bringing Bonaparte his heavy artillery and the army its supplies.

The French watched this capture without being able to prevent it, and

found themselves in the strange position of besiegers being fought with

their own weapons.

On the 25th they made a breach and attempted an assault, but were

stopped by the counterscarp and the ditch.

On the 26th of March, the besieged, led by no less a personage than

Djezzar Pasha himself, attempted a sortie to destroy the works which had

already been begun. But being charged with the bayonet, they were at

once repulsed and were obliged to retreat within the gates of the city.

Although the French battery consisted of only four twelve-pounders,

eight eight-pounders and four howitzers, this feeble battery was

unmasked on the 28th, and made a breach in the tower against which the

principal attack was directed. Although of heavier calibre than those of

the French, Djezzar's cannon were silenced by the enemy, and the towers

offered a practicable breach at three o'clock in the afternoon.

A cry of joy burst from the French when they saw the wall crumble and

caught a glimpse of the interior. The grenadiers, who had been the first

to enter Jaffa, excited by the memory, and thinking that it would be no

more difficult to take Acre than it had been to take Jaffa, asked with

one accord to be allowed to enter the breach.

Bonaparte had been in the trench with his staff ever since the morning;

yet he hesitated to give the order for the assault. However, egged on by

Captain Mailly, who told him that he could no longer restrain the

grenadiers, Bonaparte decided, and, in spite of himself, the words

escaped him: "Well, go then!"

The grenadiers of the sixty-ninth brigade, led by Mailly, dashed at once

into the breach; but to their great astonishment where they had

expected to find the slope of the moat, they found an escarpment twelve

feet high. Then came the cry, "Ladders! Ladders!"

Ladders were thrown into the breach, the grenadiers leaped from the top

of the counterscarp down to them, and Mailly seized the first ladder and

threw it into the breach; twenty more were at once placed beside the

first one.

But the breach was filled with Arnauts and Albanians, who fired at close

range, and even rolled down stones upon their assailants. Half the

ladders were broken, and in falling carried down those who had mounted

upon them. Mailly was severely wounded and fell from the top to the

bottom of his. The fire of the besieged was redoubled; the grenadiers

were obliged to retreat, and to use the ladders with which they had

hoped to scale the breach to climb up the counterscarp again.

Mailly, who was wounded in the foot and could not walk, begged his

soldiers to take him with them. One of them put him on his shoulders,

and fell with a bullet through the head a moment later. A second took up

the wounded man and carried him to the foot of a ladder where he fell

with a broken thigh. Eager to put themselves in safety, they abandoned

him, and they could hear his voice crying, while no one stopped to reply

to him: "At least make an end of me with a bullet, if you cannot save

me."

Poor Mailly had not long to suffer. The moats were no sooner evacuated

by the French soldiers than the Turks swarmed down into them, and cut

off the heads of all who were left.

Djezzar thought to bestow a suitable gift upon Sidney Smith; he had all

these heads put in a sack and sent to the English commodore. Sidney

Smith merely looked sadly at the ghastly trophy and said: "This is what

it means to be allied with barbarians."

CHAPTER VI

PTOLEMAIS

However indifferent Bonaparte was in regard to Jerusalem, having passed

within twenty miles of it without tarrying to visit it, he was none the

less interested in the ground on which he stood. Being unable, or not

having cared to do as Alexander did at the time of his conquest of

India, to go out of his way to visit the high-priest of Jerusalem, he

regarded it as some compensation to stand upon the ancient site of

Ptolemais, and to set up his tent where Richard Cœur-de-Lion and

Philippe-Auguste had set up theirs.

Far from being indifferent to his historical surroundings, his heart

rejoiced in it; and he had chosen the little hill where he had watched

the fight on the first day as his headquarters, confident that the

heroes who had preceded him had placed their banners on the same spot.

But he, the first of the leaders of political crusades, following the

banner of his own fortune and leaving behind him all the religious

beliefs which had led millions of men to the same place, from Godfrey de

Bouillon to Saint Louis--he, on the contrary, brought in his train the

science of the eighteenth century, of Volney and Dupuis; or, in other

words, scepticism.

While caring little for Christian traditions, he was on the other hand

deeply interested in historical legends.

The very evening of the unfortunate assault in which poor Mailly had

perished by the same death as his brother, he assembled his officers and

generals in his tent, and ordered Bourrienne to take the few books which

composed his library from the boxes. Unfortunately it contained but few

historical works relating to Syria. He had only Plutarch, the lives of

Cicero, Pompey, Alexander and Antony; and in the way of political

literature he had only the Old and New Testaments and a Mythology.

He gave each of the books which we have just named to the most literary

of his generals or his young friends, and then called upon the

historical reminiscences of the others, which, combined with his own,

formed the only information which he could obtain in that desert

country. Thus he was but incompletely informed. We who, more fortunate

than he, have the literature of the Crusades before our eyes, can raise

the veil of centuries for our readers, and give them the history of this

little corner of the earth, from the time when it fell to the share of

the tribe of Asher in the distribution of the Promised Land, until the

day when Richard Cœur-de-Lion endeavored to take it for the third time

from the Saracens.

Its old name was Acco, meaning "burning sands," and the Arabs still call

it Acca. Made tributary to Egypt by the kings of the Greek dynasty of

Ptolemy, who inherited Alexandria upon the death of the conqueror of the

Indies, it bore the name of Ptolemais about one hundred and six years

before the birth of Christ.

Vespasian, when preparing his expedition against Judea, spent three

months at Ptolemais, and held court there for the kings and princes of

the adjacent countries.

It was there that Titus saw Berenice, daughter of Agrippa I., and fell

in love with her.

But Bonaparte had nothing relating to this period save a tragedy of

Racine's, fragments of which he was wont to make Talma declaim with

great frequency.

The Acts of the Apostles says: "From Tyre we came to Ptolemais, where

our voyage ended, and having saluted our brethren, we abode one day with

them." As you know, Saint Paul says that, and it was he who came from

Tyre to Ptolemais.

The first siege of Ptolemais by the Crusaders began in 1189. Boah-Eddin,

an Arab historian, says, in speaking of the Christians, that they were

so numerous that God alone could number them. But on the other hand a

Christian author, one Gauthier Yinisauf, chronicler of Richard

Cœur-de-Lion, assures us that Saladin's army was more numerous than that

of Darius.

After the battle of Tiberius (of which we shall have occasion to speak

in describing the battle of Mount Tabor), Guy de Lusignan, having

escaped from captivity, laid siege to Jerusalem, whose fortifications

had just been rebuilt. Strong towers defended it on the seaward coast.

One was called the Tower of the Flies, because the pagans offered up

their sacrifices there, and the smell of the human flesh attracted the

flies. The other was called the Accursed Tower, because, says Gauthier

Vinisauf in his "Itinerary of King Richard," it was in this tower that

the pieces of silver were struck for which Judas sold Christ.

It was by this very same old "accursed tower" that the Saracens made

their way into the city in 1291.

Although he was ignorant of the fact, that was the very tower which

Bonaparte had so unsuccessfully attacked. Walter Scott, in one of his

best novels, "The Talisman," has related an incident of this famous

siege, which lasted two years. The Arab histories, much less well-known

than the French, contain some interesting data concerning this siege.

Ibn-Alatir, one of Saladin's physicians, has, among others, left us an

interesting account of the Mussulman camp.

"In the midst of the camp (it is Ibn-Alatir who is speaking) was a vast

square where the farriers' forges were located. There were one hundred

and forty of them. We can judge of the rest of the camp in proportion.

"In a single kitchen there were twenty-nine pots, each one large enough

to hold a sheep. I myself counted the number of shops registered as

markets. I counted seven thousand. You must know that they are not like

our city shops. A shop in a camp would make a hundred of ours. All were

well supplied. I have heard that when Saladin changed his camp to retire

to Karouba, although the distance was short, that it cost one

butter-merchant seventy gold pieces to move his shop. As for the old and

new clothes shops, they were something beyond description. There were

more than one thousand baths in the camp. They were kept by Africans,

and it cost a piece of silver to take a bath.

"The camp of the Christians was like a fortified city. All the trades

and all the mechanical arts were represented there."

The markets were supplied with meat, fish and fruits as completely as

the capital of a great kingdom could have been. There were even churches

with bells there. Therefore it was usually at the hour of mass that the

Saracens attacked the camp.

"A poor English priest," says Michaud, "built a chapel dedicated to the

dead at his own expense on the plain of Ptolemais. There was a vast plot

of consecrated ground around the chapel, whither he followed the remains

of more than one hundred thousand pilgrims, chanting their burial

service himself. Forty lords of Lubeck and Bremen made tents with the

sails of their vessels for the poor soldiers of their country and took

care of them in sickness. This was the origin of a celebrated order

which still exists under the name of the Teutonic Order."

Whoever has travelled in the East, in Egypt, or to Constantinople, has

made the acquaintance of the famous Turkish Punchinello, called

Caragous. The exploits of our Punchinello are as nothing when compared

to his; and he, the cynic of cynics, would blush at the most innocent

jokes of his turbaned colleague.

It was during this siege, in which Richard Cœur-de-Lion and Saladin

played such an important part, that the ancestor of the modern Caragous

appeared. He was an Emir.

Another historical date, no less important to verify, is that of the

first bill of exchange. Emad-Eddin speaks of an ambassador of the Caliph

of Bagdad who was the bearer of two loads of naphtha and reeds, and who

brought with him five persons skilled in the distillation and the use

of naphtha. It is admitted that naphtha and Greek fire are one and the

same. Furthermore, this same ambassador brought a note of hand for

twenty thousand pieces of gold on the merchants of Bagdad. Thus the bill

of exchange and the note of hand are not inventions of modern commerce,

as they were used in the East in the year 1191.

It was during this two years' siege that the besieged invented the

_Zenbourech_, which the popes afterward forbade the Christians to use.

It was a sort of arrow about twelve inches long and four inches thick.

It had four sides, an iron point, and a feathered head. Vinisauf relates

that this dreadful arrow, thrown by the instrument which was used to

shoot it, would at times pass through the bodies of two men armed with

shields, and then bury itself in the wall.

It was toward the close of this siege that the great dispute arose which

alienated Richard Cœur-de-Lion and Leopold, duke of Austria.

Cœur-de-Lion, who sometimes returned from an assault so riddled with

arrows that he looked like a pin-cushion, as his historian says, was

justly proud of his courage and strength. Leopold, who was equally

proud, had his flag hoisted over the city which he had just entered with

Richard. Richard might have put his own flag beside that of Duke

Leopold, but he preferred to take down the Austrian flag and throw it

into a ditch. All the Germans revolted and wished to attack the king in

his quarters; but Leopold opposed this.

A year later, as Richard did not wish to return to his domain through

France, owing to his differences with Philippe-Auguste, he travelled

through Austria in disguise; but he was recognized in spite of it, made

prisoner, and incarcerated in the castle of Durenstein. For two years no

one knew what had become of him; this thunderbolt of war had been

extinguished like a meteor. There were no traces left of Richard

Cœur-de-Lion.

A gentleman of Arras named Blondel undertook to find him; and one day,

without having the least idea that he was so near the English king, he

sat down at the foot of an old castle, and began to sing the first verse

of a couplet which he had composed with Richard. Richard, by the way,

was a bit of a poet in his leisure moments. When he heard the first

verse of this couplet which he and Blondel had composed, he suspected

the latter's presence and replied with the second.

The rest of the story, which has furnished Grétry with a theme for his

masterpiece, is well known.

Ptolemais surrendered to the Christians, as we have said, after a siege

of two years. The garrison were promised their lives on condition that

they surrender the True Cross, which was captured at the battle of

Tiberias. It is needless to say that, once at liberty, the Saracens

forgot all about their promise.

A hundred years later, Ptolemais was recaptured from the Christians,

never to be given up to them again.

This siege also had its chroniclers, its sudden turns of fortune, which

rent all Europe and Asia, and its devotion, which was marked in more

than one instance by heroism and self-abnegation.

Saint Antonius relates a curious legend in reference to this siege.

"There was," he says, "a celebrated monastery of nuns at Saint-Jean

d'Acre belonging to the order of Saint Claire. When the Saracens entered

the town, the abbess ordered the convent bell to be rung, and assembled

all the community.

"Addressing the nuns, she said: 'My dear daughters and beloved sisters,

we have promised the Lord Jesus Christ to be his spotless wives. We are

at this moment in twofold danger--danger to our lives and danger to our

purity. Those enemies of our bodies and of our souls as well are close

at hand, who, after dishonoring those whom they meet, run them through

with the sword. If we cannot escape them by flight, at least we can do

so by taking a painful but invincible resolve. It is woman's beauty

which attracts men most frequently. Let us despoil ourselves of this

attraction. Let us use our faces as a means of preserving our moral

beauty, our chastity, intact. I will set you the example. Let those who

wish to appear spotless before their spotless Spouse imitate their

mistress!'

"Having spoken thus, she cut off her nose with a knife. The others

followed her example, and courageously disfigured themselves in order to

appear more beautiful in the eyes of the Lord.

"By this means they preserved their purity," continues Saint Antonius;

"for the Mussulmans, upon seeing their bleeding faces, experienced

naught save horror for them, and contented themselves with merely taking

their lives."

CHAPTER VII

THE SCOUTS

During this evening when Bonaparte had assembled all his staff, not as a

council of war or to formulate a plan of battle, but as a literary and

historical committee, several messengers arrived for the Sheik of Aher

to warn him that the Pasha of Damascus was preparing to cross the Jordan

with an army, in order to force Bonaparte to raise the siege of

Saint-Jean-d'Acre.

This army, which, according to the always exaggerated reports of the

Arabs, had an immense baggage train with it, was to cross the Jordan at

Jacob's Bridge.

On the other hand, Djezzar's agents had visited all the sea-coast of

Said, and this contingent had joined those of Aleppo and Damascus, with

the greater feeling of security since the messengers of the Pasha had

everywhere spread the report that the French were a mere handful of men,

that they had no artillery, and that it would suffice for the Pasha of

Damascus to show himself and unite with Djezzar to exterminate Bonaparte

and his army.

At this news, Bonaparte threw down the volume of Plutarch which he was

reading and called for Junot, Vial and Murat. He sent Vial north to take

possession of Sour--the ancient Tyre. He despatched Murat northeast to

make sure of the Fort of Zaphet; and Junot south, with orders to take

possession of Nazareth, and to take observation of the surrounding

country from the elevated position of this village.

Vial crossed the mountains at Cape Blanco, and came in sight of Sour on

the 3d of April. The French general, from his post at the crest of a

little hill, could see the frightened inhabitants leaving the town in

disorder with every sign of great terror. He entered the town without

any opposition, promised peace and protection to the people who had

remained, reassured them, persuaded them to go and look for those who

had run away, and at the end of three or four days had the pleasure of

seeing them all in their own homes again. Vial returned to

Saint-Jean-d'Acre on the 6th of April, leaving a garrison of two hundred

men at Sour.

Murat was equally fortunate with his expedition. He made his way to Fort

Zaphet, where a few shots drove away half of the garrison. The other

half, which was composed of Maugrabins, offered to put themselves under

Murat's orders. From there he went to the Jordan, reconnoitred its right

bank, took a look at the Lake of Tiberias, and, leaving a French

garrison well-provisioned at the fort, he returned with his Maugrabins

on the 6th of April.

Junot had taken Nazareth--our Saviour's birthplace--and had encamped

there, half in and half out of the village, awaiting fresh orders from

Bonaparte, who had told him not to return until he was recalled.

But Murat's endeavors to reassure the commander-in-chief were all vain.

His presentiments, and above all the insistence of the Sheik of Aher,

gave him no rest in regard to this invisible army which was marching

against him. Therefore he accepted the Sheik's offer to go as a scout to

the Lake of Tiberias.

Roland, who was weary of remaining in the camp, where, being constantly

under Bonaparte's eyes, he could not risk his life as he wished, asked

leave to accompany the Sheik in his explorations. They set forth that

same night, taking advantage of the coolness and darkness to reach the

plain of Esdrelon, which offered them the double shelter of the

mountains of Nablos to the right and those of Nazareth to the left.

* * * * *

"On the 7th of April, the promontory on which Saint-Jean-d'Acre is

built, the ancient Ptolemais, seemed to be wrapped in as much thunder

and lightning as was Mount Sinai on the day when the Lord appeared to

Moses from the burning bush.

"Whence came those reports which shook the coast of Syria as with an

earthquake? Whence came that smoke which covered the Gulf of Carmel with

a cloud as thick as though Mount Elias had become a burning volcano?"

We began the first chapter of the new narrative with these words. The

other chapters have only served to explain what had preceded this Syrian

campaign--the eighth, and probably the last Crusade.

Bonaparte was in fact beginning his second assault. He had taken

advantage of the return of Vial and Murat to try his luck once more. He

was in the trench scarcely a hundred paces from the ramparts. Near him

stood General Caffarelli, with whom he was talking. The latter was

standing with his hand on his hip, to help balance himself on his wooden

leg. The joint of his elbow was just visible above the trench. The peak

of Bonaparte's three-cornered hat was also visible above the trench, and

it was carried away with a bullet. He stooped down to pick it up, and as

he did so noticed the general's position, and, drawing near to him, he

said: "General, those Arnauts and Albanians are excellent marksmen, as

my hat has just discovered. Take care that they do not do to your arm

what they have just done to my hat."

Caffarelli made a disdainful movement. The gallant general had left one

of his legs on the banks of the Rhine, and he did not seem alarmed at

the prospect of leaving some other portion of his body on the banks of

the Kerdaneah. He did not move.

A moment later Bonaparte saw him start and turn round with his arm

hanging lifeless at his side. A bullet had struck his elbow and broken

the joint. At the same moment Bonaparte raised his eyes and discovered

Croisier, not ten paces from them, standing on the edge of the trench.

It was useless bravado. Bonaparte therefore called out: "Come down,

Croisier, come down! You have no business there. Come down: I wish it."

"Did you not say in public one day that I was a coward?"

"I was wrong, Croisier," replied the general, "and you have proved to me

since that I was mistaken. Come down."

Croisier started to obey, but he fell down instead. A bullet had broken

his thigh.

"Larrey! Larrey!" cried Bonaparte, stamping his foot impatiently, "here,

come here; I have some work for you."

Larrey came up. They laid Croisier on some muskets. As for Caffarelli,

he walked away, leaning on the arm of the chief surgeon.

Let us leave the assault, begun under such gloomy auspices, to take its

course, and cast our eyes on the beautiful plain of Esdrelon, covered

with flowers, and the river Kishon, whose course is marked by a long

extent of rose-laurels.

Two horsemen were carelessly riding along the banks of this river. One

of them, dressed in the green uniform of the mounted chasseurs, with his

sabre at his side and his three-cornered hat on his head, was fanning

himself with a perfumed handkerchief, as he might have done with a fan.

The tri-colored cockade in his hat showed that he belonged to the French

army.

The other wore a red cap tied around his head with a piece of chamois

skin. A brilliantly colored head-dress fell over his shoulders. He was

completely enveloped in a burnoose of white cashmere, which, when it

opened, revealed a rich Oriental caftan of green velvet embroidered with

gold. He had a party-colored silk belt, its shades arranged with that

marvellous taste which is only to be found in Eastern stuffs. Two

pistols with silver-gilt handles wrought like the finest lace were stuck

into this belt on one side. His sword alone was of French make. He had

wide trousers of red satin tucked into green boots embroidered like the

caftan, and of the same material. Besides all this he carried a long,

slender lance, light as a reed and strong as a bar of iron, tipped at

the end with a bunch of ostrich feathers.

The two young men halted in a bend of the river, in the shade of a

little grove of palms; and there, laughing pleasantly together as

befitted travelling companions, they began to prepare to eat their

breakfast, which consisted of a few pieces of biscuit which the young

Frenchman took from his holsters and dipped for a moment in the river.

As for the Arab, he began to look around and above him. Then without

saying a word he attacked one of the palm-trees, whose tender porous

wood yielded readily to the sharp steel.

"In truth that is a good sword which the commander-in-chief gave me a

few days ago," he said; "and I hope before long to try it on something

besides palm-trees."

"I should think so," replied the Frenchman, munching the biscuit with

his teeth; "that was a gift of Versailles manufacture. But are you

destroying that poor tree just to try the temper of the blade?"

"Look!" replied the Arab, pointing upward.

"Faith!" replied the Frenchman, "we shall have a better breakfast than I

thought, for it is a date-palm."

And just then the tree fell with a crash, bringing enough fully ripened

dates for two or three meals within their reach. They began to attack

with the appetites of twenty-five the manna which the Lord had sent.

They were in the midst of their meal when the Arab's horse began to

neigh.

The Arab uttered an exclamation, darted out of the little grove and

scanned the plain of Esdrelon, in the middle of which they had paused to

breakfast.

"What is it?" asked the Frenchman, nonchalantly.

"One of ours riding a fast mare. We shall probably learn what we want to

know from him."

He returned and seated himself near his companion, without disturbing

himself about his horse, which set off at a fast gallop to meet the

oncoming rider. Ten minutes later they heard the gallop of two horses.

A Druse, who had recognized his chief's horse, stopped near the group of

palms, where the presence of a second horse indicated that the party had

stopped, even if there were no encampment.

"Azib!" called the Arab chief.

The Druse leaped from his horse, throwing the reins upon its neck, and

advanced toward the sheik with his hands crossed on his breast and

bowing low. The sheik addressed a few words in Arabic to him.

"I was not mistaken," said the Sheik of Aher, turning to his companion.

"The advance-guard of the Pasha of Damascus has just crossed Jacob's

Bridge."

"We will go and see," returned Roland, whom our readers have doubtless

recognized from his indifference to danger.

"There is no need," returned the sheik; "Azib has seen."

"Yes," returned Roland, "but perhaps Azib has not seen correctly. I

shall feel more certain when I have seen for myself. This great mountain

which looks like a pie must be Mount Tabor. The Jordan is therefore just

beyond it. We are within a mile of it. Let us go and look; then we shall

know for ourselves what to think."

And without stopping to see whether the Sheik of Aher was following him,

Roland leaped upon his horse, which was refreshed by its halt, and

galloped swiftly away in the direction of Mount Tabor. A minute later he

caught the gallop of the others behind him.

CHAPTER VIII

THE BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTERS OF NAZARETH

He rode for three miles over the beautiful plain of Esdrelon--the most

immense and the most celebrated in Palestine after that of the Jordan.

In other days it was styled the Paradise and the Granary of Syria, the

Plain of Jezreel, the Field of Esdrela, the Plain of Mejiddo. It is

mentioned in the Bible under all these names. It witnessed the defeat of

the Midianites and the Amalekites by Gideon. It saw Saul encamped by the

fountain of Jezreel to fight the Philistines, who were assembled at

Aphek. It was in this plain that poor Naboth had his vineyard near the

palace of the rich Ahab, and there the infamous Jezebel had him stoned

to death as a blasphemer in order to obtain possession of his

inheritance. It was there that Joram had his heart pierced by an arrow

hurled by the hand of Jehu. And, finally, it was almost on the same spot

where the young men had breakfasted, that Jezebel, by Jehu's orders, was

thrown from a window, and her body was devoured by dogs.

In the Middle Ages this plain which has seen so many sights was called

the Plain of Sabas. To-day it is called Merdjibn-Amer, which means

"Pasturage of the sons of Amer." It extends for about fifteen miles

between the mountains of Gilboa and those of Nazareth. Mount Tabor rises

at its extreme end, and it was toward that that the three riders were

galloping without giving a thought to the celebrity of the ground which

their horses were trampling with their feet.

Mount Tabor is accessible on all sides, and particularly so toward

Fouli, by way of which they were approaching.

They were obliged to climb the summit--an easy task for their Arab

horses--before they could look over the Jordan, which from any lower

elevation obscured their view of the Jordan and the Lake of Tiberias.