mitrailleuses behind us bellowing over our heads. The French soldiery
sent up cheer after cheer for "les Américains" as we made our way,
still shouting, "While we were marching through Georgia." There were
twenty or twenty-five of us, and we made some noise. In the streets of
Rueil we found the dead and wounded very thick. We filled our wagons
with the wounded, and started back for our hospital at Paris. In our
wagon we had seven, so we had to walk along beside it. It was late in
the night when we reached the city gate. There we were confronted
by sentinels with glaring torches, challenged, asked the number of our
wounded, and then allowed to rattle and creak over the draw-bridge.
Just inside the walls we were met by a surging mass of anxious men,
women and children.

"What regiment have you?" they would shout. "Has the Hundred-and-fifth
been engaged? Have the Zouaves been in?"

"Yes," exclaimed one from our wagon, rising on his elbow, "they have
been in, and many haven't come out again." Then snatching his fez from
his head, he waved it in the glare of the torches, I and cried, "Vive
la France! vive la République!"

That poor fellow was shot in the hip. We so far cured him at the
hospital that I saw him hobbling into the fight upon a cane, his gun
strapped across his back, at the last sortie of the besieged. I got
very well acquainted with him, too, at the hospital, as I did
with many another gallant fellow on both sides. He was an educated
gentleman of Alsace: he had entered the Zouaves as a volunteer at the
outbreak of the war, and had fought it all through in the ranks. He
was sergeant when he was wounded. After the war and Commune were over
I was touched on the shoulder by some one sitting upon the seat back