class="x-ebookmaker-pageno" title="p. 34" id="pgepubid00034"/>ridiculous account of the manner in which the aid of British soldiery was invoked, to put a stop to the manufacture on the part of the poor prisoners:—“Then those ruthless inroads, called in the story of the place straw plait hunts, when in pursuit of a contraband article, which the prisoners, in order to procure themselves a few of the necessaries of life, were in the habit of making, red-coat battalions were marched into the prison, who, with the bayonet’s point, carried havoc and ruin into every convenience which ingenious wretchedness had been endeavouring to raise around it: and the triumphant exit with the miserable booty: and, worst of all, the accursed bonfire on the barrack parade of the plaited contrabands beneath the view of the glaring eye-balls from their lofty roofs, amidst the hurrahs of the troops, frequently drowned in the curses poured down from above like a tempest shower, or in the terrific whoop of ‘Vive l’Empereur.’”

Very rhetorical, but altogether improbable and utterly nonsensical!

The explanation of these exaggerations and misstatements on the part of Borrow is to be found in the fact that, as he admits, he was quite a boy when he saw Norman Cross barracks.  His father was an officer in one of the regiments on guard there (and they were constantly changing), and his account was written years afterwards, when it was not likely he would remember accurately what he had heard and seen so long ago.  Indeed, he acknowledges as much when he begins his account by the ominous words, “If I remember right,”—which he certainly did not.

No.  The unfortunate prisoners of Norman Cross were not petted, neither were they uncared for.  They were treated as prisoners of war, not as criminals; and were not employed (as English prisoners were in France,) in public and other works.  They had, poor fellows, a heavy lot to bear, but it is an abominable falsehood

to say that it was aggravated by any needless severity on the part of the English Government.

CHAPTER III.—A FRIEND IN NEED.

It was not long before Captain Tournier was allowed to go out on parole, and that too with considerable latitude both as to distance and length of absence.  Major Kelly, the Commandant, and Captain Mortimer, the Admiralty agent, had had some talk together about the matter, and were not quite in agreement on the subject.

“We shall have some trouble with that fellow Tournier.  He keeps himself aloof from the others, and takes no part in their amusements, and goes mooning about as if he had got mischief brewing.”

“Have you ever found him uncivil or disobedient to orders?” enquired the major.

“Oh, not in the least; he conducts himself

quite like a gentleman.  But I have always found your silent, moody man the most likely one to try and blow up the ship.”

Captain Mortimer was an honest, open-hearted sailor, inclined to be a martinet, but with very little power to discriminate character and (like a great many other people in the world,) without painstaking sympathy, as the prisoners found to their cost in many ways, though they did not know exactly how it was.  Major Kelly, on the contrary, did not judge after the outward appearance, but detected something in Tournier’s profound melancholy which he could not understand indeed, but which his heart revolted from setting down uncharitably to evil.

So as his authority was supreme in such a matter as granting parole to a prisoner, the agent having charge only (but it was a most important one,) of the Commissariat and Transport service, Tournier soon obtained his parole.

“You will be disappointed some day about him I fear, major.”

“Well, it may be; perhaps so—yes;” which may be regarded as an expression of no very great confidence in the prophecy.

One day, Tournier was walking down the hill leading to Yaxley with his now customary gloom over-shadowing his face, when he saw a horseman approaching.  The rider had been watching him for some little distance as he came up, and just before they met pulled up his horse, and bowing, said with a pleasant smile, “Good morning, Captain Tournier, I hope I see you well.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the other politely, but with some little surprise, “I am very well; but pardon me for asking who it is I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

“My name is Cosin, and I live at the old house facing the church close by where we are.  So we are fellow-parishioners, habitants de la même commune, as you would say in France, I think.”

Again a polite bow.  “But will you excuse me for asking how you know me?”

“Oh, I have heard of you from my friend, Major Kelly.  I will not tell you what he said when he described you to me, but I knew you at once from his description; and I am very pleased to have met you.”

Another bow.  “He told you, I suppose, that you would know me by my sour looks.  They all tell me that, or something very similar.”

“Far from it.  But you would not like me to repeat compliments.  Yet the major did tell me you took your captivity too much to heart.”

“That is true, I daresay.  But I cannot help it.”

“Then, if you will allow me, let me try and act the part of a friend and neighbour.  We are close by each other, as you see.  If you will do me the favour of calling on me at the Manor Farm whenever you may in course of time feel disposed, I shall be delighted: only the sooner the better.”

“A thousand thanks,” said the captain with a faint smile, but with no intention then of availing himself of the kind offer.

Friendship is not often formed on the instant, as Jonathan’s for David, when the soul of Jonathan was knit in a moment with the soul of David, and “Jonathan loved him as his own soul.”  Albeit the two had met before.

They shook hands heartily and went their ways.

Mr. Cosin was the gentleman who had laid his whip across the saucy lout’s back at the time the French prisoners were marching into the barracks.  He was possessed of a fair competence; but loving a country life and something to do, had hired the Manor Farm in Yaxley.  The house was of no great size, but built of stone, picturesque, and of considerable antiquity; and it stood, as we have already said, on the opposite side of the road to the church, looking towards the west end, where its handsome tower stands, with lofty well-proportioned

spire, a conspicuous object to all the fen country for miles around.  It was about a mile from the Norman Cross barracks.

About two years before this Mr. Cosin had met with the greatest loss that can befall a man.  He had lost his wife.  It changed the whole complexion of his future.  He was like a traveller who had come to the crest of a ridge from which he could look back on the road he had traversed, and the unknown future was spread before him, sharply separated from all the past.  In his case that had been a happy past—a very happy past.  But the future, whatever it might be, must at least be without her.  He was still a young man, and without a family; but he determined to have a sister for his companion,