the foster-child of the sturdy wife of a vine-dresser of Medoc--
a lineal descendant of the heroes of ancient prowess; in a word,
he was one of those individuals whom nature seems to have
predestined for remarkable things, and around whose cradle
have hovered the fairy godmothers of adventure and good luck.

In appearance Hector Servadac was quite the type of an officer; he was rather
more than five feet six inches high, slim and graceful, with dark curling
hair and mustaches, well-formed hands and feet, and a clear blue eye.
He seemed born to please without being conscious of the power he possessed.
It must be owned, and no one was more ready to confess it than himself,
that his literary attainments were by no means of a high order.
"We don't spin tops" is a favorite saying amongst artillery officers,
indicating that they do not shirk their duty by frivolous pursuits; but it
must be confessed that Servadac, being naturally idle, was very much given
to "spinning tops." His good abilities, however, and his ready intelligence
had carried him successfully through the curriculum of his early career.
He was a good draughtsman, an excellent rider--having thoroughly mastered
the successor to the famous "Uncle Tom" at the riding-school of St. Cyr--
and in the records of his military service his name had several times been
included in the order of the day.

The following episode may suffice, in a certain degree,
to illustrate his character. Once, in action, he was
leading a detachment of infantry through an intrenchment.
They came to a place where the side-work of the trench had been
so riddled by shell that a portion of it had actually fallen in,
leaving an aperture quite unsheltered from the grape-shot
that was pouring in thick and fast. The men hesitated.
In an instant Servadac mounted the side-work, laid himself