There was a spot of blood I knew
Upon my hand. I did not dare
To wash it, lest the water there
Too far away the stain should bear,
And so make all the world aware
Of what was done.
                                The cock crows —  hark!
Before his time sure. Deep in dark
The drowsy land is lying yet.
Yon frosty cloud hides up the moon,
But I am sure she is not set.
To-morrow? Is it come so soon?
Well, let it come! A hundred eyes
Can make no worse the eyes I scorn.
For in his throat Count Gysbrecht lies,
And on his body am I sworn
To prove the same this very morn.
Let Kaiser Henry range his state,
To mark the issue of my fate,
The lords of every Landgravate
From Rhine to Rhône, with looks elate,
Like gods between the earth and sky,
May crowd each golden balcony.
Come, Kaiser, call the fight!
Let the great trumpet blare on high
As tho' the Judgment Angel blew
The blast that bids the wicked rue;
Now, Gysbrecht, to the lists, and smite
Thy very worst! I reck not, I,
Not tho' the dead should come to sight,
Nor tho' a hundred heralds cry,
"On! God maintain the right!"

FROM THE LIFE OF HORACE VERNET

"WELL, I should think he would paint your
portrait for about twenty sous—   perhaps for less,
if he hasn't much to do —  but you must beat him
down. If he asks twenty-five sous, offer him
twenty. If he says twenty, offer him fifteen, and
he'll take eighteen. You remember his address?"

"Oui, mon capitaine."

"First large house near the palace. Go up
to the first floor and ring the bell. Now, right
about face, and mind you are back to drill."

This was the answer I gave Grosjean, a recruit
who inquired of me " Where he could have his
picture done?" He asked me to direct him to
a rather tip-top artist, and said he was willing to
pay liberally. So I mischievously thought of
Horace Vernet, that great French painter who
was one of the first of leaders among men struck
by death in this year sixty-three, and sent him
a patron.

Horace Vernet had points of independence
that led him to be considered by innocent people
who knew nothing of his ways rather daft. One
day, for example, one of my men came to
barracks with about a dozen glasses of wine too
many in him. The most experienced un-military
eye could not have detected it, for the old fellow
is a twelve years' service man. He stood upright
as a lamp-post, and at parade went through
every movement commanded with the nicest
precision. But it was that very uprightness and
precision which revealed to me that Monsieur
Giroux was not in his normal state. Besides
which, he had a quid in his mouth, and we never
allow that in the ranks.

After observing him " right about face" (as
if he were a piece of clockwork) several times,
I felt convinced that he was drunk, and, going
up to him, said: " Giroux, you are drunk!"
"Yes, mon capitaine." " You are chewing!"
"N— no, mon capitaine." Down his throat went
the quid. " Where have you been drinking?"
"At the infantry canteen." " Who gave you
the money?" "A civilian." "What for?"
"For looking at the fountains." " Oh! how
much did he give you?" " Two francs." " How
long did you look at the fountains?" " Half
an hour." " And what did the civilian do?"
In an incoherent jumble I understood: " Walked
up and down looking at me—   told me to move
about and admire —  then, all of a sudden, rushed
up to me and said, as if he were commanding,
'By your right; don't move! there, so!'"
"Well?"   "Then he took out his pocket-book
and took down my regimental number, I
suppose; so, seeing that, I gave it him, 1248—  I
hadn't done anything —  so he may report me if
he likes —  he offered me the money, and I took
it —  who cares for him?"  " Well, well, that'll
do —  go to bed."

I guessed that Vernet had been treating him,
so I said nothing about it. One day Vernet
stopped a sapper just as he was putting a petit
verre to his lips, and kept him in that position
for a quarter of an hour. Fancy the old trooper,
dry and thirsty, with the aromatic drop just
under his nose. Another day, at a review, he
shouted to a dragoon that he'd give him a
hundred francs if he would stop in a certain position
for five minutes only! The man was just going
head over heels off his horse, and got a regular
cropper. Veruet painted from life; when possible,
from life in activity outside his studio. He
roamed about Versailles Park, the cavalry and
infantry barracks, and there picked up attitudes
and groups of soldiery. Hence the vivacity of
all his military tableaux.

Well, we were garrisoned at Versailles, and
recruit Grosjean had asked me, his captain, to
direct him to a tip-top artist. Grosjean, although
but a recruit, is a fine soldier-like looking fellow.
He has a splendid beak nose, high forehead,
heavy moustache, and broad shoulders. As he
asked me the question, it struck me that he was a
fine subject for Vernet, so I sent him, knowing
that at all events he would offer his twenty sous
for a portrait in a way that would amuse the
genial Horace. Grosjean wanted his portrait
for his mother. All recruits in our army, when
they are well shaken into their uniforms, have
a picture " done" of themselves, and send it to
their parents. There are in all garrison towns
certain fellows, calling themselves artists, who
keep a stock of lithographed pictures of all the
troops of France—   that is, of all the hundred odd
regiments. These lithographs are plain, and
drawn in outline only. When a man wants his
portrait to send home, he inquires for an artist
of his comrades, or sergeant, or of an officer.
The comrades proclaim as the tip-top artist that,
one who uses the most brilliant colours, and who
lavishes on his portraits the most liberal quantity