“Scoundrels! cowards!” he shouted.
“I will bet they have set fire to the two houses
on the market-place, in order to have their revenge
and then they will scuttle off without saying a word.
They will be satisfied with having killed a man and
setting fire to two houses. All right. It
shall not pass over like that. We must go for
them; they will not like to leave their illuminations
in order to fight.”
“It would be a great stroke of luck, if we could
set Piedelot free at the same time,” some one
said.
The five of us set off, full of rage and hope.
In twenty minutes we had got to the bottom of the
coulee, and we had not yet seen anyone, when
we had got within a hundred yards of the inn.
The fire was behind the house, and so all that we
saw of it was the reflection above the roof.
However, we were walking rather slowly, as we were
afraid of a trap, when suddenly we heard Piedelot’s
well-known voice. It had a strange sound, however,
for it was at the same time dull and vibrating, stifled
and clear, as if he was calling out as loud as he could
with a bit of rag stuffed into his mouth. He
seemed to be hoarse and panting, and the unlucky fellow
kept exclaiming: “Help! Help!”
We sent all thoughts of prudence to the devil, and
in two bounds we were at the back of the inn, where
a terrible sight met our eyes.
Piedelot was being burnt alive. He was writhing
in the middle of a heap of fagots, against a stake
to which they had fastened him, and the flames were
licking him with their sharp tongues. When he
saw us, his tongue seemed to stick in his throat,
he drooped his head, and seemed as if he were going
to die. It was only the affair of a moment to
upset the burning pile, to scatter the embers, and
to cut the ropes that fastened him.
Poor fellow! In what a terrible state we found
him. The evening before, he had had his left
arm broken, and it seemed as if he had been badly
beaten since then, for his whole body was covered with
wounds, bruises, and blood. The flames had also
begun their work on him, and he had two large burns,
one on his loins, and the other on his right thigh,
and his beard and his hair were scorched. Poor
Piedelot!
Nobody knows the terrible rage we felt at this sight!
We would have rushed headlong at a hundred thousand
Prussians. Our thirst for vengeance was intense
but the cowards had run away, leaving their crime
behind them. Where could we find them now?
Meanwhile, however, the captain’s wife was looking
after Piedelot, and dressing his wounds as best she
could, while the captain himself shook hands with him
excitedly and in a few minutes he came to himself.
“Good morning, captain, good morning, all of
you,” he said. “Ah! the scoundrels,
the wretches! Why twenty of them came to surprise
us.”
“Twenty, do you say?”
