CHAPTER II
THE DESERTER
Dim and strange are the recollections that steal over me while I readthese time-worn letters of one who, with all his faults, was thekindest, fondest, and best of enthusiasts. It seems like a dream; Icannot fancy that I am the child alluded to. It seems as though allthis must have happened to some one else, and that I stood by andwatched. Yet have I a vague and shadowy remembrance of the warmautumnal evening; the road soft and thick with dust; the creaking,monotonous motion of the carriage, and my waking up from an occasionalnap, and finding myself propped by the strong arm of a stranger, andnestling my head upon his broad shoulder, whilst my father's kind faceand eager eyes were turned towards my new acquaintance with the earnestcomprehensive look I remember so well. My father always seemed to takein at a glance, not only the object that attracted his attention, butall its accessories, possible as well as actual. I believe he neverleft off painting in his mind. I remember nothing very distinctly; andno wonder, for my little brain must have been a strange chaos ofshifting scenes and unexpected events, foreign manners and home ideas,to say nothing of a general confusion of tongues; for I could prattleFrench, German, and Hungarian, with a smattering of Turkish, not tomention my own native language; and I used them all indiscriminately.But my father's letters bring back much that I had otherwise forgotten,and whilst I read the story of the renegade, I can almost fancy I amleaning against his upright soldierlike form, and listening to the cleardecided tones in which he told his tale.