The sentry brought his piece to that position which usually precedes the
order "Take aim." I got back a few feet--the situation was too close.
_"Mon ami,"_ I ventured to observe, "that ain't the way we treat
noncombatants in America."
"The countersign," reiterated the _garde_, still holding his _chassepot_
in the previous threatening manner.
I looked up. The stars were in the quiet sky, and the new moon was just
sinking beneath the bold outline of Mount Valerien. The surge of the
Seine against the stone piers of the bridge could be distinctly heard.
The scene was unspeakably tranquil, not to say mournful, and I said to
myself, "Is this a night for assassination?"
Again I looked up, and I saw the gleam of two more bayonets at the other
end of the bridge. Thereupon I said to myself, "This is not a night for
assassination."
"The countersign," for the third time, proceeded from the armed Apollyon
in front of me. I grew familiar.
"Come now, my good friend, this little business of mine requires some
dispatch. During the war in America--"
The click of the hammer of the sentry's rifle interrupted me. I felt
uncomfortable. I had been out in the night air many times before, but I
never knew it to be so disagreeably chilly. It climbed in behind my
shirt collar, travelled down my back with a shivering sensation, and
culminated in a regular ague when it reached my knees. With a terrific
effort I calmed myself, and opened on the soldiers again.
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