troubled at his serious mood, would accuse him of meditating some plot. It is best, if he would keep them unsuspicious of his intentions, that he should always appear reckless and abandoned. A prisoner who sports with his destiny is never an object of mistrust; the experience of the greater part of the wretched beings who have escaped from the Bagnes prove this. What is certain is, that with us, those who had the greatest interest in escaping were the least dejected; they were the leaders. When night came on, they began to sing. Imagine fifty scoundrels, the greater part drunk, all screeching different airs. In the midst of this din a "return horse" thundered out with the lungs of a Stentor, some couplets of "The Galley Slave's Complaint."
"The chain, the chain,
Makes us complain;
But never mind,
We may leave it behind.
"Our coats are of a scarlet hue,
We wear no hats on our head
But caps, and they've taken our cravats too,
And left us queer ties instead.
'Tis true we are spoil'd children,
And have no right to complain;
And for fear of losing us, now and then,
They fasten us with a chain.
"Oh, we will make articles fine and nice,
In wood, in straw, in wax,
And sell them below the market price,
For our shops will pay no tax.
And those who come to see our toys
Will purchase every day,
And the produce of our hands, my boys,
Will moisten well our clay.
******
