were dying with hunger the fierce hurricane poured on unchecked; was a loaf thrown to the drivers, they caught it flying; the torch-bearers passed slices of meat to them on the end of their bayonets, and then, with the same steel that had served that purpose, goaded their maddened horses on to further effort.  And the night grew old, and still the artillery was passing, with the mad roar of a tempest let loose upon the land, amid the frantic cheering of the men.

Maurice’s fatigue was too much for him, and notwithstanding the interest with which he listened to Silvine’s narrative, after the substantial meal he had eaten he let his head decline upon the table on his crossed arms.  Jean’s resistance lasted a little longer, but presently he too was overcome and fell dead asleep at the other end of the table.  Father Fouchard had gone and taken his position in the road again; Honore was alone with Silvine, who was seated, motionless, before the still open window.

The artilleryman rose, and drawing his chair to the window, stationed himself there beside her.  The deep peacefulness of the night was instinct with the breathing of the multitude that lay lost in slumber there, but on it now rose other and louder sounds; the straining and creaking of the bridge, the hollow rumble of wheels; the artillery was crossing on the half-submerged structure.  Horses reared and plunged in terror at sight of the swift-running stream, the wheel of a caisson ran over the guard-rail; immediately a hundred strong arms seized the encumbrance and hurled the heavy vehicle to the bottom of the river that it might not obstruct the passage.  And as the young man watched the slow, toilsome retreat along the opposite bank, a movement that had commenced the day before and certainly would not be ended by the coming dawn, he could not help thinking of that other artillery that had gone storming through Beaumont, bearing down all before it, crushing men and horses in its path that it might not be delayed the fraction of a second.

Honore drew his chair nearer to Silvine, and in the shuddering darkness, alive with all those sounds of menace, gently whispered: 

“You are unhappy?”

“Oh! yes; so unhappy!”

She was conscious of the subject on which he was about to speak, and her head sank sorrowfully on her bosom.

“Tell me, how did it happen?  I wish to know.”

But she could not find words to answer him.

“Did he take advantage of you, or was it with your consent?”

Then she stammered, in a voice that was barely audible: 

“Mon Dieu! I do not know; I swear to you, I do not know, more than a babe unborn.  I will not lie to you—­I cannot!  No, I have no excuse to offer; I cannot say he beat me.  You had left me, I was beside myself, and it happened, how, I cannot, no, I cannot tell!”

Sobs choked her utterance, and he, ashy pale and with a great lump rising in his throat, waited silently for a moment.  The thought that she was unwilling to tell him a lie, however, was an assuagement to his rage and grief; he went on to question her further, anxious to know the many things, that as yet he had been unable to understand.