I cannot tell how I knew that this was only his Christian name; but so it
was, and I knew him by no other, neither did my father. I have, indeed,
evidence among our private papers to show that neither by those in
authority at Berlin, nor by the prisoner himself, was he at any time
informed either of the family name of Monsieur Maurice, or of the nature of
the offence, whether military or political, for which that gentleman was
consigned to his keeping at Bruehl.
"Of one thing at least I am certain," said my father, holding out his pipe
for me to fill it. "He is a soldier."
It was just after dinner, the second day following our prisoner's arrival,
and I was sitting on my father's knee before the fire, as was our pleasant
custom of an afternoon.
"I see it in his eye," my father went on to say. "I see it in his walk. I
see it in the way he arranges his papers on the table. Everything in order.
Everything put away into the smallest possible compass. All this bespeaketh
the camp."
"I don't believe he is a soldier, for all that," said I, thoughtfully. "He
is too gentle."
"The bravest soldiers, my little Gretchen, are ofttimes the gentlest,"
replied my father. "The great French hero, Bayard, and the great English
hero, Sir Philip Sidney, about whom thou wert reading 'tother day, were
both as tender and gentle as women.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25