just fun for me to blaze away at those rascals and knock one
of 'em over every time."

The lieutenant and the corporal had already begun to make an inspection
of the premises. There was nothing to be done on the ground floor; all
they did was to push the furniture against the door and windows in such
a way as to form as secure a barricade as possible. After attending to
that they proceeded to arrange a plan for the defense of the three small
rooms of the first floor and the open attic, making no change, however,
in the measures that had been already taken by Weiss, the protection of
the windows by mattresses, the loopholes cut here and there in the slats
of the blinds. As the lieutenant was leaning from the window to take a
survey of their surroundings, he heard the wailing cry of a child.

"What is that?" he asked.

Weiss looked from the window, and, in the adjoining dyehouse, beheld the
little sick boy, Charles, his scarlet face resting on the white pillow,
imploringly begging his mother to bring him a drink: his mother, who lay
dead across the threshold, beyond hearing or answering. With a sorrowful
expression he replied:

"It is a poor little child next door, there, crying for his mother, who
was killed by a Prussian shell."

"_Tonnerre de Dieu!_" muttered Laurent, "how are they ever going to pay
for all these things!"

As yet only a few random shots had struck the front of the house.
Weiss and the lieutenant, accompanied by the corporal and two men, had
ascended to the attic, where they were in better position to observe the
road, of which they had an oblique view as far as the Place de l'Eglise.
The square was now occupied by the Bavarians, but any further advance
was attended by difficulties that made them very circumspect. A handful
of French soldiers, posted at the mouth of a narrow lane, held them
in check for nearly a quarter of an hour, with a fire so rapid and
continuous that the dead bodies lay in piles. The next obstacle they
encountered was a house on the opposite corner, which also detained them
some time before they could get possession of it. At one time a woman,
with a musket in her hands, was seen through the smoke, firing from one
of the windows. It was the abode of a baker, and a few soldiers were
there in addition to the regular occupants; and when the house was
finally carried there was a hoarse shout: "No quarter!" a surging,
struggling, vociferating throng poured from the door and rolled