In

fatigue, as were also our conductors. order to guard us more easily, the Prussians demanded from the curé the keys of the church, and we were confined there, the doors being strongly barricaded and watched by sentinels, so that we had no hope of escape. The curé had asked leave of the Prussians to remove the Blessed Sacrament. The church was ancient; there were chapels of feudal times, and walls pierced with holes looking toward the altar, exactly as in the church of Pesmes (Jura), which is near our home. We had made ourselves as comfortable as we could on the benches, and I think I had fallen asleep, when, about midnight, I heard a voice calling, "Chasseur, chasseur !"

I rubbed my eyes, looked around, and saw the head of the curé projecting from a square hole in the wall, which I had taken for a cupboard to hold the cruets. "Do you want to escape from the Prussians ?" asked the curé. "Indeed we do. How can we get away?" 66 Here; make your comrades leave the candles burning, which I have lighted on purpose, and make no noise, for the Prussians are close at hand." We were soon ready, and one

after another we climbed into the opening in the wall. This opening led to an ancient chapel, in which were kept some church furniture. The window, which had no bars, was rather high, but the curé had placed a ladder, by which we descended to the garden of the presbytery, each man carrying his shoes in his hand. Thence a little gate let us out into the country, and the curé said, "Are you all here?" "Yes, Father," replied a sergeant. Well, my friends, put on your shoes, and let us be off!" We followed the good curé in silence, no longer conscious of fatigue, for the idea of freedom gave us wings. When we had been walking two hours, the curé said, My friends, you are out of danger from your guards. At dawn you will see three villages where there are no Prussians. You must separate and try to find clothes. And now, a pleasant journey, and may the good God guide you." "But you, Monsieur le Curé, what will become of you? The Prussians will be furious. If they find you, they will shoot you." "They will not find me, for I cannot go back." "But they will burn your house-your church." "Is it not worth while to risk my house and my church for the liberty of fifty-three such brave soldiers as you are?" We wept with emotion. The curé embraced us, and we set off. Oh, the brave man! And the rascals say the curés brought the war and the Prussians! Let them ask the fourth bat

talion of chasseurs.

On their entry into Sarreguemines, the Prussians demanded the keys of the church of the curé the Abbé Muller. The old man

refused. "Monsieur le Curé," said an officer, "your resistance is tiresome. We are conquerors, everything belongs to us. If you do not instantly give up the keys of the church, we will take them by force, and you shall be "

"I understand," interrupted the venerable priest. "In a military execution, how many balls do you fire upon the condemned man?" "Eight, and the coup-de-grace." "Well! before you enter my church to profane it, you may fire eight balls into me, and you may give me the coup-de-grace, then only shall you enter the church over my body."

The curé of Neuville, in the department of the Ardennes, was the Abbé Cor, more than eighty years old.

Accused of having favored the march of the French, and retarded that of the Prussians, the old man was arrested. The Prussians fastened him to the tail of a horse, and in this manner dragged him over the roads and ploughed land. Often the old man fell, but a Prussian cavalier pulled him by a cord fastened to the leg of the curé; his hands and face were bleeding, his limbs bruised, his clothes in rags. Finally, the

Prussians threw him into a ditch by the roadside. Seeing him thus covered with blood and mire, one of his parishioners said to him: "Monsieur le Curé, what a state you are in!" "Oh," replied the curé, "it is only my old cassock." Where in all history can we find a finer reply, or one so simple, so philosophical? "It is only my old cassock!" body has nothing to do with it, and the soul still less.

The

After the battle of Forbach, the curé of Gunstatt was seized, and carried before a kind of Prussian courtmartial. It is not known what was required of him, but he gave the most explicit refusal to the demands of the enemy. Some hours were given him for reflection, at the expiration of which he again refused. The council condemned him to death. A respite of two hours was still given, which the priest passed in prayer. When the Prussian soldiers came to lead him to execution, he

At the beginning of the last war, a strong French column, escaping from the pursuit of the enemy, and trying to rejoin the corps d'armée to which it belonged, reached a village of Lorraine. The wooded and broken country, and lack of information about the strength and position of the Germans rendered the retreat difficult and dangerous. On entering the village the French General Camb- halted his troops, and summoned the authorities. The mayor and most of the inhabitants were gone, but the curé remained at his post. When the curé appeared, the General, who was studying a small and very imperfect map, could not conceal his disappointment, for, indeed, the good priest seemed little fitted for the post to which the chances of war had destined him. More than seventy years old, below medium height, prodigiously stout, with head close upon his shoulders, face bloated, hands swollen, and feet in heavy sabots, the curé walked with difficulty, leaning on a staff. He told the General that he was tormented with gout, and that he was only a poor ignorant servant. The General, who was not stupid, discerned in the physiognomy of the priest great intelligence; his small gray eyes sparkled beneath thick eyebrows, his smile was full of expression, and under an air of rustic good nature, the General saw a quick wit, an energetic character, and the

man. "Monsieur le Curé," said the General, "you and I must hold a little council of war." The curé took his snuff box, opened it slowly, and taking a pinch, said gayly, "I might remind you, General, that history has often shown us the Church enlightening the councils of sovereigns, and pointing out the best route for their armies. But let us come to the point. What is your aim, General? Where do you come from? Where are you going? Do you wish for fighting, or do you wish to avoid it?" The General replied to these questions with complete confidence. The curé took a pencil, and traced some lines on the map, then, after a moment's silence he said to the General: " The enemy is twenty or twenty-five kilometres from here, at a point which I have marked by an A; they will not come up with you before to-morrow morning. Your troops are weary, and must rest, but not in the village, which is commanded on all sides by hills. Three kilometres on, following the road, at the top of this little ascent, you will find a plateau, surrounded by the river, which forms a wooded peninsula, and there you will be in safety. To pursue you, the enemy will leave the highway, which is longer than the cross-road, and requires the passage of the bridge which you have seen; fearing that the bridge may be destroyed, the Prussians will come by the wood, following the line A B. come out, then, to-morrow morning at B, where we are; as soon as they appear, you will hear the bell of my church. The twenty or thirty soldiers, whom you will leave in the village, will withdraw without firing a shot, not by the road, that would indicate your direction, but by the little path B C. You will yourself leave the highway, and turn to the left, at the point D, where the inn of the Cheval Blanc is. Thus you will withdraw from the enemy, and put

They will

between you the river E F, which has only one ford. Your march will be masked by hills. At evening you will have rejoined your corps d'armée. I will now point out to you the village houses where you will find what you need; I shall make a note of what you take, and you will sign me a receipt; but I beg of you, let there be no disorder, and respect the property of others. All the inhabitants will contribute in proportion to their means, for our defenders must live; besides," added the curé, taking another pinch of snuff, "as the Prussians are going to pillage us to-morrow, we need not be too miserly to-day.'

After a moment's silence, the priest resumed: "General, you must give me four soldiers, two shall be stationed in the belfry to observe the distance, the two others shall lie in ambush with me, on the edge of the village, near the fountain. Choose two brave fellows, insensible to the cold of the night and the temptation to sleep-give me two tried soldiers, for I do not know what may await us. "Monsieur le Curé," cried the General, "you are a hero!" The merry laugh of the old priest brought on a violent cough, the snuff-box came to his aid, and he said: "The seminaries are full of heroes of my sort, and the barracks too. To love one's country is not heroism." The night was long and cold; under a thatch-covered shed three men were watching, crouched behind fagots of vine branches, listening to the least breath, and gazing intently into the darkness. They were listening for the enemy while the troops slept. Two among them were young and active grenadiers, the third was easily recognized by his cassock and white hair. The soldiers leaned upon their guns; the priest held in his hand a little altar-bell, which he was to ring when he saw the Prussians, and the men in the belfry were to sound the tocsin at the signal of

"They

the curé. All was silent except for the low tones of the old man, who prayed to God. Towards three o'clock in the morning, the curé laid his hand on the shoulder of one of the soldiers, and with his finger pointed out an object almost invisible in the depth of the forest. At a distance of a hundred metres from the shed, great trees formed a vast circle; the soldiers saw nothing but motionless trees, and shrubs stirred by the morning breeze. "See," whispered the curé, "they are creeping along behind the trunks of the oaks, they are stopping to listen." "I see nothing," said a grenadier. "Nor I," said the other. are assembling," resumed the old curé; "and are about to start-an officer is speaking to them in an undertone-it is time to ring. You, my friends, go quietly, and do not show yourselves. May God protect you.' "We will not leave you, Monsieur le Curé; what will become of you?" "I, my children, am old and infirm; the good God will provide for me. The order of the General is for you to withdraw at the sound of the bell; obey! I give you my blessing." So saying, the priest sounded the little bell, and the tocsin responded from the belfry of the church. Shots resounded, the forest was illuminated with a thousand fires, a sudden clamor broke the stillness of the night, and clouds of smoke rose in the air. The curé knelt, made the sign of the cross, and had only time to repeat the words, "Our Father who art in heaven." A ball struck him, and he fell. The French column retreated without losing a single man, and in the evening rejoined the corps d'armée. The priest was not mortally wounded. Brought before a council of war, during his convalescence, he was condemned to death for treason to the German army, the sentence being commuted to imprisonment on account of his great age.

A terrible conflict was raging a few leagues from the village of Les Horties. The curé was at the altar, praying for his country, while around him the terror-stricken villagers besought God to protect them. A body of German reinforcements halted for a short rest at some distance from the scene of battle. In spite of the vigilance of the sentinels two young men crept noiselessly from bush to bush and fired four shots upon the Prussians, then bounded away and concealed themselves in a field of corn. Twenty balls whistled harmlessly about their ears, while three Prussians fell, struck in the breast, and a fourth ball grazed the eagle on an officer's helmet. A detachment of German soldiers marched immediately to the village, where they seized six inhabitants at random and carried them before the mayor. The leader of the detachment said to this functionary, "You are the first authority here; I come, therefore, in the name of my august sovereign, to tell you that the soldiers of his Majesty have been fired upon near your village. Being nearest to the scene of the crime you are responsible. You

must give up to us the guilty men, or six of your inhabitants will be shot for the sake of the example. Make haste to decide; I will wait till eleven o'clock to-morrow. The execution must take place at noon, therefore you have no time to lose; meanwhile your village is under military occupation, and I keep the six prisoners." It would be useless to attempt to describe the despair of the poor villagers; with sobs and tears it was agreed that the victims should be chosen by lot. Those who had fired upon the Germans did not belong to the village; they came from a distance, and had followed the Prussian column, to choose a favorable moment for their vengeThe day passed in discussion, in grief, and in despair. The mayor, the curé, M. Geri, and two old men

ance.

more than eighty years old, vainly besought the Prussian officer for pardon, proving to him that the inhabitants were strangers to the attack. All in vain. The six unhappy men who had been chosen by lot were delivered to the Germans at five o'clock in the evening, and confined in the school-room, on the ground floor of the mayoralty. The Prussian officer authorized the curé to give them the consolations of religion. He found them in such a state of prostration that they hardly understood his words; two seemed to have fainted, and one was in the delirium of fever. At the end of the line, upright and apparently calm, was a man of forty, a widower and the only support of five young children. At first he seemed to listen with resignation to the words of the priest, but, overcome by despair, he gave way to the most fearful imprecations; then, passing from despair to tenderness, he bewailed the fate of his children, abandoned to poverty, perhaps to death. After vainly endeavoring to restore peace to this tortured soul, the curé left him and went to the headquarters of the officer; the latter, smoking calmly a great porcelain pipe, listened without interrupting. "Captain," said the curé, “we have given you six hostages, who will be shot in a few hours. None of them fired upon your troops, the guilty men having escaped. Your aim is not to punish those who attacked you, but to give an example to the inhabitants of other places. It matters little whether you shoot Peter or Paul, James or John-the better known the victim, the more salutary will be the example. I come then to ask that you will allow me to take the place of a poor father, whose death will plunge five little children into poverty. We are both innocent, but my death will be more profitable than his." "Very well," said the officer. Four soldiers led the curé to prison, where he was put in bonds with the other victims, and