to use such
words.

'I have seen--nothing, Riou,' I said.

They looked at me with the utmost wonder. 'M. le Maire has
seen--nothing?' said Riou. 'Ah, I see! you say so to spare us. We have
proved ourselves cowards; but if you will pardon me, M. le Maire, you,
too, re-entered precipitately--you too! There are facts which may appal
the bravest--but I implore you to tell us what you have seen.'

'I have seen nothing,' I said. As I spoke, my natural calm composure
returned, my heart resumed its usual tranquil beating. 'There is nothing
to be seen--it is dark, and one can perceive the line of the road for
but a little way--that is all. There is nothing to be seen----'

They looked at me, startled and incredulous. They did not know what to
think. How could they refuse to believe me, sitting there calmly raising
my eyes to them, making my statement with what they felt to be an air of
perfect truth? But, then, how account for the precipitate return which
they had already noted, the supposed faint, the pallor of my looks? They
did not know what to think.

And here, let me remark, as in my conduct throughout these remarkable
events, may be seen the benefit, the high advantage, of truth. Had not
this been the truth, I could not have borne the searching of their
looks. But it was true. There was nothing--nothing to be seen; in one
sense, this was the thing of all others which overwhelmed my mind. But
why insist upon these matters of detail to unenlightened men? There was
nothing, and I had seen nothing. What I said was the truth.

All this time Lecamus had said nothing. As I raised myself from the
ground, I had vaguely perceived him hanging up the lantern where it had
been before; now he became distinct to me as I recovered the full
possession of my faculties. He had seated himself upon a bench by the
wall. There was no agitation about him; no sign of the thrill of
departing excitement, which I felt going through my veins as through the
strings of a harp. He was sitting against the wall, with his head
drooping, his eyes cast down, an air of disappointment and despondency
about him--nothing more. I got up as soon as I felt that I could go away
with perfect propriety; but, before I left the place, called him. He got
up when he heard his name, but he did it with reluctance. He came with
me because I asked him to do so, not from any wish of his own. Very
different were the feelings of Riou and Gallais. They did their utmost
to