THE FALSE ZOUAVE 121

years among the French dragoons,
I would cut him down with my
sabre.’

And furious, half rising from his
seat, the blacksmith pointed to his
long-bladed sabre, hung on the wall
below a portrait of his son, a portrait
of a Zouave taken over there in
Africa; but looking at the honest,
brown, sunburnt Alsatian face bleached
and shadowless under the brilliant
light of the east, he grew suddenly
calm and began to laugh :

‘A fine fellow I am to lose my head.
. .. As ifour Christian would dream
of turning himself into a Prussian, he
who has pulled down many a one
during the war !’

Restored to good humour by this
thought, the worthy man finished his
dinner gaily, and went off immediately
after to toss down a couple of mugs
at the City of Strasbourg.

In the meanwhile the old woman
was alone. After having put to bed