All the long, long day of the battle Silvine, up on Remilly hill, where Father Fouchard's little farm was situated¹, but her heart and soul absent with Honore amid the dangers of the conflict, never once took her eyes from off Sedan, where the guns were roaring. The following day, moreover, her anxiety was even greater still, being increased by her inability to obtain any definite tidings, for the Prussians who were guarding the roads in the vicinity refused to answer questions, as much from reasons of policy as because they knew but very little themselves. The bright sun of the day before was no longer visible, and showers had fallen, making the valley look less cheerful than usual in the wan² light.

Toward evening Father Fouchard, who was also haunted by a sensation of uneasiness in the midst of his studied taciturnity, was standing³ on his doorstep reflecting on the probable outcome of events. His son had no place in his thoughts, but he was speculating how he best might convert the misfortunes of others into fortune for himself, and as he revolved⁵ these considerations in his mind he noticed a tall, strapping⁶ young fellow, dressed in the peasant's blouse, who had been strolling up and down the road for the last minute or so, looking as if he did not know what to do with himself. His astonishment⁷ on recognizing him was so great that he called him aloud by name, notwithstanding that three Prussians happened to be passing at the time.

"Why, Prosper⁸! Is that you?"

The chasseur d'Afrique imposed silence on him with an emphatic⁹ gesture; then, coming closer, he said in an undertone:

"Yes, it is I. I have had enough of fighting for nothing, and I cut my lucky. Say, Father Fouchard, you don't happen to be in need of a