ing, when, after a sleepless night, I was lying in bed, I heard, in the passage of the convent where we were staying, a noise, as if somebody was beating a coat to dust it; this noise seemed, however, to be louder, and the Gothic vaults of the convent had already echoed it for half an hour, when Major Fischer, the General's aide-de-camp, and my companion in misfortune, entered my room. “Who is this indefatigable servant,” said I, “that takes such care of his master's clothes, and has dusted them for the last half hour?” “What do you mean,” answered Fischer, “it is not a coat, but Xenophon, our assistant surgeon, who is dealt with in this manner by two corporals, according to the orders of Major Titow.”—“O Xenophon!" exclaimed I, “O retreat of the Ten Thousand! O noble art of surgery! how are you treated!” Major Titow laughed till the tears stood in his eyes at my astonishment upon this occasion, and when I asked him what Xenophon had done to deserve so severe a treatment; “Not much,” replied he, “but as he has not been
