That sentry, if you asked him, would tell you that
he is free. He pities me, perhaps, for being a prisoner. Yet he is even
less free than myself. He is the slave of discipline. He must walk, hold up
his head, wear his hair, dress, eat, and sleep according to the will of his
superiors. If he disobeys, he is flogged. If he runs away, he is shot. At
the present moment, he dares not lose sight of me for his life. I have
done him no wrong; yet if I try to escape, it is his duty to shoot me.
What is there in my captivity to equal the slavery of his condition? I
cannot, it is true, go where I please; but, at least, I am not obliged to
walk up and down a certain corridor, or in front of a certain sentry-box,
for so many hours a day; and no power on earth could compel me to kill an
innocent man who had never harmed me in his life."
In an instant I had the whole scene before my eyes--Monsieur Maurice
flying--pursued--shot down--brought back to die!
"But--but you won't try to run away, Monsieur Maurice!" I cried, terrified
at the picture my own fancy had drawn.
He darted a scrutinising glance at me, and said, after a moment's
hesitation:--
"If I intended to do so, petite, I should hardly tell Colonel Bernhard's
little daughter beforehand.
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