THAT'S MOTIVATION ENOUGH

#OthElokuu

Eric Minton, US. June 2013.

IAGO IS THE SOLDIER'S SOLDIER: THAT'S MOTIVATION ENOUGH
This is a play of pathologies, and Iago's is his ego, specifically his military ego. This is a guy who probably sees himself as a general some day and that some day has been waylaid by a damn counter-caster.

In Othello, William Shakespeare inserts an extraordinary moment between Desdemona and Iago after their arrival in Cyprus before they know whether Othello has come safely to port—extraordinary in that it is an interchange that has echoes in reality among us military commander spouses. After some public joshing between them, Desdemona suddenly interrupts the wit war by asking, "There's one gone to the harbour?" "Ay, madam," Iago replies. "I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise," she says and then, in the next line, goes back to the joking. This interlude is not accompanied by a stage direction, but if it is an aside between Desdemona and Iago, it establishes how much Desdemona, following her husband's lead, not only trusts Iago but leans on him herself.
Across the eons, the ubiquitous They have been pondering Iago's motivation in this play. Can it be only that he's upset over not being named Othello's lieutenant? Is it jealousy, whether directed at Cassio, Othello, or Desdemona? Is it the suspicion that Othello cuckolded him? Is it, perhaps, extreme insecurity? Is it racism? Meanwhile, the question I hear more often among modern audiences is how could Othello be so gullible?
My question is when did Shakespeare serve in the military? And I don't mean the 16th century English army or navy, but the 21st century armed forces. I grew up in the U.S. Air Force and was married to the Air Force 20-plus years, and, as a journalist, worked for or with every branch of the U.S. military. To me, Iago's actions and Othello's reactions are integral to the play's military context. Maybe Iago takes his being passed over for promotion to extremes—but maybe not.
Othello's military setting not only factors into Iago's motivation and Othello's gullibility, it provides the means for Iago to carry out his machinations and the environment that smoothes his way. It also offers clues to Iago's true personality that manifests in his sadistic behavior.
Granted, the military I know is 400 years removed from that of Shakespeare's time, but I'm struck by the extent to which Shakespeare establishes a military context that seems so familiar to me. And before I proceed with my observations, I want to state that while I can see Iago and Othello in today's military, I don't consider them representative of today's military. Iago is but one of 16-plus characters in Othello, or just over 5 percent of the play's population. That math could probably be accurately applied to the character of the modern military, as well. Unfortunately, as it is with Othello itself, it is that 5 percent that hogs the spotlight (even as I write this in an airport waiting lounge I'm hearing a CNN news report of the ongoing sexual assault scandal in the U.S armed forces). Why so much commentary on this play downplays or even overlooks Iago's internalized persona as a soldier is baffling, considering that his status in the army is foremost in his own mind. He brings it up with his third line in the play. His first two lines are interjections to Roderigo to patiently hear him, and then Iago explains how he sent Othello envoys "in personal suit to make me his lieutenant." This wasn't just any promotion. Though in today's military, a lieutenant is at or near the bottom of the officer rank structure, in the Venetian army Shakespeare is portraying, the lieutenant is the general's second in command, the vice commander. It doesn't carry a lot of prestige in the army's intersection with the civilian world (note that Cassio is silent in the senate scene), but within the military it is a position of great stature among the soldiers. While the commander provides the vision, sets the policies, and establishes the strategies, the deputy is the one who makes sure the commander's orders are carried out.
"Good Michael, look you to the guard tonight," Othello orders Cassio in Cyprus, and adds,"Let's teach ourselves that honorable stop not to outsport discretion." Cassio replies, "Iago hath direction what to do, but notwithstanding, with my personal eye will I look to't." Here's the chain of command explicitly established: the general turns command over to his deputy (the lieutenant) along with his overriding vision to not outsport discretion, and the deputy passes the order down the ranks to the first sergeant or platoon leader (Iago). For good measure, the deputy here assures the general he will follow up—but Othello has a telling reply we'll address in a bit.
Iago didn't merely covet the lieutenantship; he felt in his heart he earned it as the best man for the job. "I know my price, I am worth no worse a place," he tells Roderigo. Iago then recounts his combat record with Othello "at Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds Christened and heathen." Iago and Othello are war-bred brethren, whereas Cassio, according to Iago, doesn't even have combat experience. He "never set a squadron in the field nor the division of battle knows." Rather, Cassio is "a great arithmetician" and "counter-caster"—he's an accountant. In today's military, such administrative officers are derisively called bean counters, desk jockeys, admin weenies. Cassio's preferment over Iago is doubly galling to an infantry grunt like Iago. Meanwhile, Othello names Iago his ensign or ancient, which in the mid-16th century was the flag bearer in battle. Today, ensign is the lowest officer rank in the U.S. Navy, but in Shakespeare's portrayal of Iago he's akin to Othello's top-ranking non-commissioned officer (NCO).
At this point in Iago's explanation to Roderigo of why he hates the Moor, an interesting insight into Iago's true nature appears. Roderigo, a civilian, remarks that if it were he who had been so jilted, he would have become Othello's hangman. Iago, however, views it from a different perspective. "Why, there's no remedy," he says. "'Tis the curse of service." How true. In the military, if you don't make promotion you don't protest, pout, or plead, you just get on with doing your job or you get out. This reply to Roderigo shows Iago to be a soldier first and foremost, though one who has served long enough to become cynical, saying "Preferment goes by letter and affection, and not by old gradation, where each second stood heir to th'first."
In itself, this does not fully explain Iago's drive for revenge, but this is a play of pathologies, and Iago's is his ego, specifically his military ego. This is a guy who probably sees himself as a general some day and that some day has been waylaid by a damn counter-caster. That's hard for even the most upstanding among us to handle gracefully. Iago has earned his reputation through combat service; in peacetime, he becomes so restless he turns to gulling Roderigo for his adrenaline fix. Meantime, the fierce general he loyally followed all these years has suddenly started courting a young debutante and selected a pretty boy ("a fellow almost damned in a fair life," says Iago) as his second in command. All factor into his agitation (latent racism may be present, too).
Then there's that bedeviling rumor. "It is thought abroad that 'twixt my sheets [Othello] has done my office," Iago says in his first soliloquy. "I know not if't be true, but I, for mere suspicion in that kind, will do as if for surety." In a later soliloquy, he hammers on this point again, that his suspicion "doth … gnaw my inwards." His wife, Emilia, brings up the accusation herself late in the play. "Some such squire he was that turned your wit the seamy side without and made you to suspect me with the Moor," she says to Iago in Desdemona's presence. Based on Iago's own doubts in the beginning and Emilia's casual dismissal of the rumor later with Othello's wife in the room, we can safely presume that Othello did not cheat with Emilia.
So what? It is the rumor alone that matters to Iago. Such rumors can run rampant in military communities, and whether true or not, they taint opinion among serving men and women. I once heard about a general's wife who had sex with various airmen on almost a daily basis in their home on base. I heard of an affair involving two officers, one of them the wife of a high-ranking member of the unit. I heard of the commander screwing an officer and enlisted woman on his staff. I have no idea if any of these are true, but regarding the last I had such a loathing for that commander that I, for mere suspicion, took it for surety. Maybe, in this respect, I am an Iago.
Except that Iago is also a man with criminal tendencies already established, as he's well into scamming Roderigo as the play begins. Remember, too, that Iago makes his way as he goes: He meditates on a course of action and then develops it as circumstances allow. When he realizes how much psychological power he's gained over Othello, that's when his pathological egotism pushes him over the edge into having Cassio murdered and getting Othello to murder Desdemona.
Which brings us to how Othello could allow himself to get into such a fix in the first place. We'll start where we left off in his exchange with Cassio about setting the guard that first night in Cyprus. "Iago hath direction what to do, but notwisthanding, with my personal eye will I look to't," Cassio says. "Iago is most honest," Othello replies. Critics point to this as one of many ironic lines that exemplify Iago's duplicity, but Othello's statement reads to me as a gentle admonishment of Cassio. The general is essentially telling the lieutenant, "Iago knows what he's doing" with the implied subcontext of "Let him do his job." I can't count the times I've heard commanding officers issue such rein-tugging hints to over-zealous lieutenants. As we'll see later, Cassio gets the hint.
Military ranks are divided between officers and enlisted (including NCOs). At the top of the NCO ranks, you have the sergeant major in the Army and Marine Corps, the master chief petty officer in the Navy, and the chief master sergeant in the Air Force, the latter two going by the sobriquet "Chief." Though even the lowest grade officer outranks them, senior NCOs are afforded the utmost regard by even the highest-ranking officers. I used to work with a retired Air Force chief master sergeant, and my wife, a retired colonel, always called her "Chief" out of respect. Whenever I told my wife about some difficulty I was having at work, she'd advise, "and what does the chief say?" Rare is the commanding officer who doesn't have a tight relationship with the unit's senior NCO, and in many cases the commander is closer to the chief or sergeant major than to the deputy.
It's clear from the stage business established in the dialogue that Iago fills the role of sergeant major to General Othello, and Shakespeare goes to great lengths to establish such a commander/chief relationship between Othello and Iago.

• The first conversation between general and ancient is one of easy bonhomie that transcends rank, and in it Iago is establishing his loyalty.
• Iago knows of Othello's elopement with Desdemona before Cassio does; though Cassio served as the couple's courtship liaison, he even asks who Othello has married when Iago brings it up.
• Othello requests that Desdemona be put in the care of Iago's wife. 

Thus do commanders put utmost trust in their senior NCOs. Every good senior leader expects his or her most-senior NCO to "speak truth to power." In return, one of the unspoken duties of a good NCO is to watch his or her commander's back, making sure the commander is not blindsided. Iago manipulates this commander-NCO paradigm. He drops casual observations to pique Othello's attention: "Ha? I like not that," an under-his-breath exclamation as they see Cassio steal away from Desdemona, spoken loudly enough for Othello to hear. Iago offers good counsel: "Beware, my lord, of jealousy." Iago briefs Othello on situational awareness: "I know our country disposition well: In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks they dare not show their husbands." And Othello demands Iago speak the truth: "I prithee speak to me as to thy thinkings, as thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts the worst of words." Iago first asserts his duty up and down the ranks: "Good my lord, pardon me. Though I am bound to every act of duty, I am not bound to that all slaves are free to. Utter my thoughts?" With this, Iago ironically gets Othello to set aside rank. "Thou does conspire against thy friend, Iago," Othello says.
Bred in the other half of the commander-NCO paradigm, Othello readily gets caught up in his ensign's web. And no matter how close commanders and senior NCOs become and how much mutual respect they may hold for each other, the moment they ignore their ranks and treat each other as equals, chaos comes.
It is also because of his reputation as a long-serving loyal soldier to Othello that Iago is able to ensnare Cassio in the first place. When Iago comes on stage after Othello and Desdemona have gone off to bed, Cassio tells him they "must to the watch." But Iago protests: "Not this hour, lieutenant; 'tis not yet ten o'th' clock." Cassio has heard his general say not six lines before that "Iago is most honest" with its implied admonishment, so he's going to go along with the command sergeant major here (he might even figure that Othello would, too). Iago proposes Cassio join the party of revelers as a show of esprit de corps (and learns from this that the desk jockey can't handle his liquor—but the real soldier probably suspected that anyway), and after Cassio departs drunk, Iago surreptitiously imputes him to the other soldiers, calling him a "soldier fit to stand by Caesar and give direction" but one with a vice for drunkenness that could be his undoing. This sets up Cassio as the presumed bad guy when he comes back on stage running after Roderigo with sword drawn. Iago uses the same imputative device to slander Othello later in the play. "It is not honesty in me to speak what I have seen and known," he says to Lodovico after Othello strikes Desdemona in public. "You shall observe him, and his own courses will denote him so that I may save my speech." This is a soldier who knows how to walk the tightrope of loyalty to both his commander and his government while still covering his own rear.
Iago also plays the dual loyalty card brilliantly when he testifies about the drunken brawl to Othello. "I had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth than it should do offence to Michael Cassio," he says, and upon this prelude, he tells the truth—and what he describes are, indeed, the facts—that inevitably will lead to the cashiering of Cassio. Accountability is the lot of the ranking officer—in this instance, Lt. Cassio—and Iago is certain of this before he proceeds.
The Philadelphia Shakespeare Theatre's recent production of Othello highlighted Iago's misogynist tendencies, and even in this context the soldier's persona may factor into his actions. For it's not just Cassio who has usurped Iago's place as war-bred brother of Othello; Desdemona has, too. "Our general's wife is now the general," he tells Cassio, and I sense this belief piles on the other sleights he's endured to further turn his stomach. Not only that, Othello brings Desdemona and Iago's wife along as he prepares to defend Cyprus from an invasion. This is a war zone! Even today, while we are now sending women into combat (to the gnashing of teeth of many an old Iago-like soldier) we certainly don't send soldiers' civilian wives (or husbands, for that matter) into war zones, or even potential war zones, as some posts in South Korea are unaccompanied assignments. For a professional soldier like Iago, this enforced domesticity means the war zone is no longer his comfort zone.
I've encountered some Iagos (just not quite so pathological). I know of more than a few Othellos who overextended their trust in their subordinates beyond rank and suffered downfalls as a result. I've not seen a subordinate getting his or her commander to kill a spouse—at least not literally. But I have no doubt from my personal experience and knowledge that reality could mirror this fiction some day (if it hasn't already), just as this fiction so adeptly mirrors today's reality.

Eric Minton
June 4, 2013

EN TOTAL, CINCO BESTIAS

Llegó el batallón a un lugarejo y el sargento Pulido se fue en derechura a casa del alcalde a pedirle bagajes y raciones para el día siguiente.

El alcalde dijo:

-Póngalo usted por lista a fin de que no se me olvide.

El sargento escribió entonces en un papelito la cantidad de raciones que necesitaba, y en punto a bagajes, añadió luego: un mulo, mi capitán: otro mulo, mi teniente: tres cadetes, tres borricos: en total, cinco bestias.

Chiste andaluz, recopilado por Juan Valera

THAT CONCEITED STRIPLING!

THAT CONCEITED STRIPLING!

Gustav Nieritz portrays here a vitriolic relationship between lieutenant and sergeant of the kind that fascinates me: it's the typical stripling lieutenant with the typical veteran sarge under his command... but these two find one another insufferable, the former being a cowardly and arrogant "conceited stripling" and the latter a benevolent father to his men. Subversive, isn't it?
The Iagos in my retellings of Othello have actually grown from sociopathic villains who do evil for the lulz into driven by either homoerotic desire beyond their reach, such vitriolic chemistry as seen in this pair (which would give the Iago character a good reason to do what he did!), or both. The latter case, like that of Lieutenants Kurt Kotler or, in my production, Gustav Adolf von Ringstetten (who is based upon Kurt Kotler and upon Jaime Lannister in both appearance and character arc, to say the least), is a great deconstruction, or even subversion, of the naive stripling lieutenant as codified by Cassio's character (even greater than the case of previous Ringstetten Lieutenant, Gerhard, who shows how this character is broken and loses innocence by the rage of war, the disgrace of defeat, and the pass of years).
Here, the young lieutenant is a haughty, conceited stripling; while Sergeant Hoyer is a kindly, altruistic older man, whose sympathies the author are for, and a father to the men of the unit: the typical roles of the lieutenant and sergeant in fiction are here flipped, switched, and subverted. Like Joffrey, in Westeros, is revealed to a complete subversion of Prince Charming, and then, of the good child ruler... this character is the typical innocent and optimistic young lieutenant turned into an insufferable inept leader, an arrogant coward. Yet in the end, the haughty lieutenant is redeemed, like Jaime Lannister (or like Gustav Adolf von Ringstetten), forgetting his coldness and prejudice (he has grown considerably less haughty and more conciliating):

They were employed in discussing the first spoonfuls of their soup, when the door was thrown hastily open, and a young officer strode into the room, clanking his heavy spurs.

"Drummer," he cried, "beat the rappel—quick!"

These words produced an universal consternation among the soldiers; the spoons fell from their hands, and all sat as if petrified, staring in ludicrous dismay at the messenger. Sergeant Hoyer was the first who recovered himself sufficiently to stammer out. "Are you in earnest, Lieutenant? Are the men to march again tonight, after all the fatigue they have had today?"

"I never joke with my inferiors!" — replied he young lieutenant, haughtily—" Remember that, if you please; and remember too, that when you speak to your superior officer, it is your duty to rise from your seat. Haven't you learnt so much as that yet?—Don't you see that you are setting a bad example to the men, which I suppose is the reason why the boors remain sitting so quietly in lay presence,—zounds! you rascals, I'll teach you discipline!"

Hoyer and the soldiers rose from their seats like automatons strung on a wire. Without moving a muscle, the old sergeant listened to the insulting words of the young lieutenant, whose father he might well have been, both in age and experience. No sign of anger or impatience was visible in his countenance, which had, however, become somewhat pale. When the officer had finished his polite speech, he answered in a respectful tone :—

"May not the men finish their supper, Lieutenant ?''

"No!" answered the lieutenant, "it must be left for the Frenchmen, who will arrive presently, and for whom we are to make room. I shall stay here, and see that nothing is touched."

The hungry soldiers cast many a longing, lingering look at the table, as they reluctantly prepared to depart. The before-mentioned proprietor of the goose made an attempt to sneak into the kitchen, in the hope of rescuing his prize.

"Whither away?" asked the lieutenant, calling him back. "Into the—kitchen," stammered the man; "I was going—

"Stay where you are!" commanded the officer. At this moment he observed that the drummer was still present. "Why, you young scoundrel!" roared he, half drawing his sword, "will you be off this instant?" The lad seized his drum, and vanished precipitately.

"One can easily see," muttered the soldiers among themselves, "that this is our lieutenant's first campaign, or he would not bully his men as he does; he had better mind what he's about. He would'nt be the first tyrant picked off by his own men on the battlefield."

The insulting behaviour which the good sergeant had to endure from the conceited stripling, annoyed him more than all the rest. 

"Do you remember how angry our lieutenant became the other night, when Hoyer thought he was in fun; and how positively he forbade anything like making fun, though, after all, the difference in rank between him and father Hoyer is not so very great. And I'm sure you don't allow anybody to make fun with your loaded guns.

This assertion by no means benefited him, and he was prevented from saying more, by the young lieutenant, who had, on a former occasion, insulted Hoyer—

"Why, you young blockhead," angrily interrupted this merciful man, "do you suppose we are come here to save the lives of the Russians, or to conquer and destroy them?—Besides, a soldier has no right to act for himself, but should pay blind obedience to the orders of his officers. If your own father or brother were among the enemy, your sword or bayonet should be pointed at him, just as though he were a stranger." Augustus was horrified at the bare idea of such a thing. "I would rather be shot a hundred times," thought he, "than kill my good father, or my brother."

It was on the 4th of September, 1812, that towards evening the booming of cannon announced the commencement of the battle. The earth seemed to shake and tremble at the dreadful din. 

At length the cannonade ceased, and, as far as the eye could reach, innumerable watch-fires flashed up. The soldiers lay grouped around, but suspense kept most of them on the alert. As the night wore on, however, many a soldier, spent with fatigue and watching, closed his eyes to enjoy a short slumber, perhaps for the last time on earth. The watchfires went out one by one, and deeper grew the silence, broken only at intervals by the challenge of a sentry, or the neighing of a horse. But when the first faint glimmer of light in the east, announced the coming of the eventful day, every one was up and stirring. The piled muskets were appropriated, each by its owner, and the whole army was drawn up. The colonels walked up and down the ranks of their respective regiments, exhorting the men to faithfulness and duty; the sergeants read out the lists of their companies, and the word "Stand at ease!" was given. 

The second night passed quietly away, but on the third morning, at sunrise, a dreadful carnage began. Twelve hundred pieces of heavy artillery vomited forth flames and death, reddening the heavens with their glare. Every now and then a messenger of death would fly whizzing past the regiment, who stood motionless leaning on their muskets.

 The young lieutenant, of whom we have already made mention, seemed in the same predicament (felt very uncomfortable, his sinews seemed all unstrung, so that his knees knocked powerlessly together). With trembling hands he lifted his spirit flask to his parched lips;—the soldiers were not slow in observing these indications of cowardice.

"Our downy-bearded lieutenant has the cannon fever, "--whispered they one to another.

It was on one of these fearful days, that a coach with three horses, harnessed abreast, in the Russian fashion, stood at the door of a house. Presently several soldiers of the Rhenish corps appeared, carrying a wounded officer, whom they laid gently in the carriage, under the superintendence of a surgeon. A little girl took her seat beside him, and a soldier with his arm in a sling and his head bandaged up, was assisted on to the box.

"But will the colonel be able to bear the journey?" anxiously enquired a youngster in a drummer's uniform, who was no other than our friend Augustus.

"Never fear, my lad"—answered the surgeon. "The colonel can do no good here, and even when he gets well he can never take the field again. It is best for him to return to his home, where he can be properly attended to."

"Farewell, Mary!" said Augustus turning to the girl. "Take good care of our honoured colonel, and do all you can to lighten the journey for him. I shall see you again when you have returned to your parents, who have no doubt rebuilt their mill by this time. Farewell then, till we meet again."

The tears stood in the boy's eyes, as she leant forward to kiss him.

"Alas, Hoyer, I am very sad"—said he, turning to the soldier on the coach-box. "All who were fond of me—you, the colonel, and Mary—are going away.—How is all this to end? The lieutenant is not kind...

"Don't grumble, my lad," answered the sergeant, looking down from his high seat. "It's sinful to grumble. For haven't you as yet escaped better than any of us, without a scar or a scratch? I'd change with you in a minute.—I shouldn't so much mind this gash in my head, but I've lost three fingers, which makes a helpless cripple of me. Well, good bye, till we meet again." And the sergeant held out his left hand which Augustus shook heartily. As the carriage rolled slowly away, he walked beside it for a short distance.

The French army had now reached the banks of the Berezina, and two frail bridges were hastily thrown across the river. Whilst this was being accomplished, the number of fugitives and carriages of every kind, waiting to cross, increased more and more. Every one wished to be the first on the opposite bank, and none would give way an inch, so that the road was soon completely choked up with horses, cannon, waggons, and men. Almost at the end of the confused mass stood a carriage; some Frenchmen had taken away the horses, which were not yet quite exhausted, to harness them before a cannon. In the carriage lay the colonel, wounded and helpless.

"Look to your safety, my children,"—said he to Mary, and to Sergeant Hoyer, who still kept his place on the coach-box, "Leave me to my fate,—I have learnt to look death in the face without quailing, even should he come armed with a knout instead of his scythe."

"God forbid, honoured colonel!" replied Hoyer. "He must be a bad soldier, who would leave the father of the regiment in the lurch. Besides, we are caught here like mice in a trap, and can neither advance nor retreat. We must wait, till the enemy's bullets have cleared the way."

The colonel only answered with a deep sigh. "Are you hungry, dear child?" asked he, turning to Mary. The poor girl shook her head in reply, though her famished looks told plainly to the contrary.

Night came on, and with it the confusion increased. It reached its highest pitch when the Russians began, on the following day, to rain a shower of bullets among the dense mass of fugitives. Thousands were thrown down, trampled under foot, and run over, and thousands perished by the enemy's fire.

"Save yourselves who can!" was the cry. The wounded men and women were driven without mercy from the carriages, which were then piled in heaps and burnt.

Several soldiers approached the carriage in which the colonel lay, when Hoyer jumped angrily up. "Comrades!" shouted he, "would you burn us like rats? In this carriage lies my honoured colonel, who has fought sixteen battles, and received thirteen wounds in the service of Bonaparte. Have you no regard for an officer of the legion, that you can't leave him to die in quiet, and respect the coffin of a brave soldier?"

The Frenchmen, some of whom understood German, looked at each other irresolutely, spoke a few words among themselves, and went away. Hoyer watched them narrowly.

"Mary," cried he eagerly, "did you see what yonder Frenchman was doing on the powder wagon?"

"No," answered Mary.

"Do you see nothing there—my eyes have become so weak."

"I see a thin smoke, like that from a lighted pipe."

"I knew it," muttered Hoyer—"Lord have mercy upon us."

"The bridge is burning! we are all lost!"—was now the cry, and a wild lamentation arose.

"Yes, we are done for now,"—said Hoyer to himself. "In ten minutes, we shall be burnt, or at least blown into the air. Well, at any rate, we shall not die of cold, and perhaps it's all for the best, for we shall be the sooner out of our misery; and moreover I pity the poor innocent child. But what's to be done? Wounded as I am, I can't even leave the carriage without help, and poor little Mary here can't force her way through the crowd to take away the match.—Well, I'll try if any one will do it."

"Halloa,—" continued he, as loud as he could— "the powder waggons yonder will explode presently. Who will save all our lives by pulling away the match which those rascally Frenchmen have lighted?"

These words produced an effect entirely opposite to the sergeant's intention. A panic fear came upon all who heard them, and all endeavoured to escape from the dangerous neighbourhood by precipitate flight. In a few minutes only the wounded and exhausted men remained, so that the space around grew somewhat clearer. But the match smouldered slowly on, and Hoyer began to despair of any succour arriving in time to save them.

"Are you afraid to die, Mary?" asked he.

"No,"—replied the child in a weak voice.

"Hurrah!" cried Hoyer joyfully,—" Are you still alive, my boy—Throw yourself on the ground, and perhaps you may yet escape. The match on the powder wagon yonder will set fire to it in a couple of minutes.—Hurrah, now I should like to live a little longer myself—would'nt you Mary?—Even the colonel would rally, if he could see the boy."

Surrounded as they were by the horrors of death, the three friends forgot everything in the joy of meeting one another. The colonel, however, was past all emotion; he lay in the carriage, almost insensible. But their joy did not last long. Shots were fired more and more frequently, and at length a cannon ball grazed the carriage, and shattered one of the hind wheels.

The Russians, who were plundering the wagons, and making prisoners.

Hoyer's deep voice grumbled from the box— "Directly, captain; only wait till I've got my sword!"—Even the colonel cried in delirium— "Forward, lads, forward! Strike down all! Give no quarter!"

A troop of men, all wearing coats of coarse cloth over shabby uniforms, and carrying stout sticks, now appeared in view. They were German prisoners, who had been set free at the conclusion of the war, and were now returning to their homes. As they drew near, four persons separated themselves from the rest, and approached the mill. They were Augustus, the Colonel, Sergeant Hoyer, and Mary. The child flew with a scream of delight into the arms of her parents, who could scarcely believe their eyes, when they saw the daughter whom they had so long mourned as dead. Explanations were hurriedly given, and Augustus was overwhelmed with thanks and praises.

As they were about to resume their journey, a party of their former companions came up, and looked curiously at them, wondering how they had procured such a luxury as a carriage. One man stepped forward, and begged the colonel that he might travel with him. This was no other than the haughty lieutenant, who had by this time grown considerably less haughty and more conciliating.

"Sir"—replied the colonel—" the carriage does not belong to me, but to my two comrades here. If they will take you, I have no objection."

This time the officer did not consider it "altogether beneath his dignity" to speak kindly to his subordinates. They welcomed him cordially, and willingly granted his request.