Honore, with quivering lips, looked so intently at his father that the old man began to pace the floor again. Mon Dieu! yes, the child was there; doubtless he would have to look on him.  A painful silence filled the room, while he mechanically cut himself more bread and began to eat again.  Jean also continued his operations in that line, without finding it necessary to say a word.  Maurice contemplated the furniture, the old sideboard, the antique clock, and reflected on the long summer days that he had spent at Remilly in bygone times with his sister Henriette.  The minutes slipped away, the clock struck eleven.

“The devil!” he murmured, “it will never do to let the regiment go off without us!”

He stepped to the window and opened it, Fouchard making no objection.  Beneath lay the valley, a great bowl filled to the brim with blackness; presently, however, when his eyes became more accustomed to the obscurity, he had no difficulty in distinguishing the bridge, illuminated by the fires on the two banks.  The cuirassiers were passing still, like phantoms in their long white cloaks, while their steeds trod upon the bosom of the stream and a chill wind of terror breathed on them from behind; and so the spectral train moved on, apparently interminable, in an endless, slow-moving vision of unsubstantial forms.  Toward the right, over the bare hills where the slumbering army lay, there brooded a stillness and repose like death.

“Ah well!” said Maurice with a gesture of disappointment, “’twill be to-morrow morning.”

He had left the window open, and Father Fouchard, seizing his gun, straddled the sill and stepped outside, as lightly as a young man.  For a time they could hear his tramp upon the road, as regular as that of a sentry pacing his beat, but presently it ceased and the only sound that reached their ears was the distant clamor on the crowded bridge; it must be that he had seated himself by the wayside, where he could watch for approaching danger and at slightest sign leap to defend his property.

Honore’s anxiety meantime was momentarily increasing; his eyes were fixed constantly on the clock.  It was less than four miles from Raucourt to Remilly, an easy hour’s walk for a woman as young and strong as Silvine.  Why had she not returned in all that time since the old man lost sight of her in the confusion?  He thought of the disorder of a retreating army corps, spreading over the country and blocking the roads; some accident must certainly have happened, and he pictured her in distress, wandering among the lonely fields, trampled under foot by the horsemen.

But suddenly the three men rose to their feet, moved by a common impulse.  There was a sound of rapid steps coming up the road and the old man was heard to cock his weapon.

“Who goes there?” he shouted.  “Is it you, Silvine?”

There was no reply.  He repeated his question, threatening to fire.  Then a laboring, breathless voice managed to articulate: