fifth day after his marriage, which was Saturday, he walked down to the
village, attracted by shouting and unusual excitement. When he saw the
cause of the demonstration he had a sudden flush of anger. A flag-staff
had been erected in the centre of the village, and upon it had been run
up the French tricolour. He stood and looked at the shouting crowd a
moment, then swung round and went to the office of the Regimental
Surgeon, who met him at the door. When he came out again he carried a
little bundle under his left arm. He made straight for the crowd, which
was scattered in groups, and pushed or threaded his way to the flag-
staff. He was at least a head taller than any man there, and though he
was not so upright as he had been, the lines of his figure were still
those of a commanding personality. A sort of platform had been erected
around the flag-staff and on it a drunken little habitant was talking
treason. Without a word, Ferrol stepped upon the platform, and,
loosening the rope, dropped the tricolour half-way down the staff before
his action was quite comprehended by the crowd. Presently a hoarse shout
proclaimed the anger and consternation of the habitants.

"Leave that flag alone," shouted a dozen voices. "Leave it where it is!"
others repeated with oaths.

He dropped it the full length of the staff, whipped it off the string,
and put his foot upon it. Then he unrolled the bundle which he had
carried under his arm. It was the British flag. He slipped it upon the
string, and was about to haul it up, when the drunken orator on the
platform caught him by the arm with fiery courage.

"Here, you leave that alone: that's not our flag, and if you string it
up, we'll string you up, bagosh!" he roared.