The Young Franc Tireurs, and Their Adventures in the Franco-Prussian War. G. A. Henty

while many among the gentlemen in the corps, especially those belonging to old families, were well known to be attached either to a Legitimist or Orleanist Prince. The proposal, therefore, that no politics should be discussed during the war, but that all should remember only that they were fighting for France, gave great satisfaction; and promised a continuance of the good fellowship which had hitherto reigned in the corps.

      It was a great day when, a fortnight from its first organization, the corps turned out for the first time in their uniforms. The band of the national guard headed them, as they marched down the high street of Dijon to the parade ground; and--as the spectators cheered, the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the whole corps joined in cheers, to the stirring notes of the Marseillaise--the young Barclays felt their cheeks flush, their hands tighten upon their rifles, and their hearts beat with a fierce longing to be face to face with the hated Prussians.

      A day or two after this, the Snider rifles ordered from England by Captain Barclay arrived; and although the men at first preferred the chassepots, with which they were familiar, they were soon accustomed to the new weapons; and readily acknowledged the advantage which--as their commander pointed out to them--the dark-brown barrels possessed, for skirmishers, over the bright barrels of the chassepots which, with the sun shining upon them, would betray them to an enemy miles away.

      A day or two afterwards, as Ralph and Percy were returning in the evening from drill, they heard a great tumult in the streets. They hurried forward to see what was the matter, and found an excited crowd shouting and gesticulating.

      "Death to the spy!"

      "Death to the spy!"

      "Hang him!"

      "Kill the dog!" were the shouts, and two gendarmes in the center of the crowd were vainly trying to protect a man who was walking between them. He was a tall, powerful-looking man; but it was impossible to see what he was like, for the blood was streaming down his forehead, from a blow he had just received.

      Just as the boys came up, another blow from a stick fell on his head; and this served to rouse him to desperation, for he turned round, with one blow knocked down the fellow who had struck him, and then commenced a furious attack upon his persecutors. For a moment they drew back, and then closed upon him again. Blows from sticks and hands rained upon him, but he struggled desperately. At last, overwhelmed by numbers, he fell; and as he did so he raised a wild shout, "Hurroo for ould Ireland."

      "He is an Englishman, Percy," Ralph exclaimed; "he is not a Prussian, at all. Come on!

      "Here, Louis, Philippe, help; they are killing an Englishman."

      Followed by their cousins--who had just arrived at the spot--the boys made a rush through the crowd; and arrived in another moment by the prostrate man, whom his assailants were kicking savagely. The rush of the four boys--aided by the butt-end of their rifles, which they used freely on the ribs of those who stood in their way--cleared off the assailants for an instant; and the two gendarmes--who had been hustled away--drawing their swords, again took their place by the side of their insensible prisoner.

      The mob had only recoiled for a moment; and now, furious at being baulked of their expected prey, prepared to rush upon his defenders; shouting, as they did so:

      "Death to the spy!"

      The moment's delay had, however, given time to the boys to fix bayonets.

      "Keep off," Ralph shouted, "or we run you through! The man is not a spy, I tell you. He is an Englishman."

      The noise was too great for the words to be heard and, with cries of "Death to the spy!" the men in front prepared for a rush. The leveled bayonets and drawn swords, however, for a moment checked their ardor; but those behind kept up the cry, and a serious conflict would have ensued, had not a party of five or six of the franc tireurs come along at the moment.

      These--seeing their comrades standing with leveled bayonets, keeping the mob at bay--without asking any questions, at once burst their way through to their side; distributing blows right and left, heartily, with the butt-end of their rifles. This reinforcement put an end to the threatened conflict; and the gendarmes, aided by two of the franc tireurs, lifted the insensible man and carried him to the Maine; the rest of the franc tireurs marching on either side as a guard, and the yelling crowd following them.

      Once inside the Maine the gates were shut and--the supposed spy being laid down on the bench--cold water was dashed in his face; and in a few minutes he opened his eyes.

      "The murdering villains!" he muttered to himself. "They've kilt me entirely, bad luck to them! A hundred to one, the cowardly blackguards!

      "Where am I?" and he made an effort to rise.

      "You're all right," Ralph said. "You're with friends. Don't be afraid, you're safe now."

      "Jabers!" exclaimed the Irishman in astonishment, sitting up and looking round him, "here's a little French soldier, speaking as illegant English as I do, meself."

      "I'm English," laughed Ralph, "and lucky it was for you that we came along. We heard you call out, just as you fell; and got in in time, with the help of our friends, to save your life. Another minute or two, and we should have been too late."

      "God bless your honor!" the man--who had now thoroughly recovered himself--said earnestly. "And it was a tight shave, entirely. You've saved Tim Doyle's life; and your honor shall see that he's not ungrateful. Whenever you want a lad with a strong arm and a thick stick, Tim's the boy."

      "Thank you, Tim," Ralph said, heartily. "Now you had better let the surgeon look at your head. You have got some nasty cuts."

      "Sure, and my head's all right, your honor It isn't a tap from a Frenchman that would break the skull of Tim Doyle."

      The gendarmes now intimated that, as the prisoner was restored, he must go in at once before the Maire. The young Barclays accompanied him, and acted as interpreters at the examination. The story was a simple one, and the passport and other papers upon the Irishman proved its truth conclusively.

      Tim was an Irishman, who had come out as groom with an English gentleman. His master had fallen ill at Lyons, had parted with his horses and carriage, and returned to England. Tim had accepted the offer of the horse dealer who had purchased the horses to remain in his service, and had been with him six months when the war broke out. He had picked up a little French, but had been several times arrested in Lyons, as a spy; and his master had at last told him that it was not safe for him to remain, and that he had better return to England.

      He had reached Dijon on that morning; but the train, instead of going on, had been stopped, as large numbers of Mobiles were leaving for Paris, and the ordinary traffic was suspended. Tim had therefore passed the day strolling about Dijon. The hour had approached at which he had been told that a train might leave, and Tim had asked a passer by the way to the station.

      His broken French at once aroused suspicion. A crowd collected in a few minutes; and Tim was, in the first place, saved from being attacked by the arrival of two gendarmes upon the scene. He had at once told them that he was English, and had produced his passport; and they had decided upon taking him to the Maire, for the examination of his papers--but on the way the crowd, increased by fresh arrivals, had determined to take the law into their own hands; and only the arrival of the young Barclays, and their cousins, had saved his life.

      The Maire saw at once, upon examination of the papers, that the story was correct; and pronounced that Tim was at liberty to go where he pleased. The poor fellow, however--though he made light of his wounds and bruises--was much shaken; and it would, moreover, have been dangerous for him to venture again into the streets of Dijon. Ralph therefore at once offered to take him out, and to give him a night's shelter; an offer which the Irishman accepted, with many thanks.

      It was now getting dark and, accompanied by their cousins, the Barclays were let out with Tim Doyle from a back entrance to the Maine; and made their way unnoticed