He read in them bitter, immense regret for life. Miette
was telling him that she was going away all alone, and before their
bridal day; that she was leaving him ere she had become his wife. She
was telling him, too, that it was he who had willed that it should
be so, that he should have loved her as other lovers love their
sweethearts. In the hour of her agony, amidst that stern conflict
between death and her vigorous nature, she bewailed her fate in going
like that to the grave. Silvere, as he bent over her, understood how
bitter was the pang. He recalled their caresses, how she had hung round
his neck, and had yearned for his love, but he had not understood, and
now she was departing from him for evermore. Bitterly grieved at the
thought that throughout her eternal rest she would remember him solely
as a companion and playfellow, he kissed her on the bosom while his hot
tears fell upon her lips. Those passionate kisses brought a last gleam
of joy to Miette's eyes. They loved one another, and their idyll ended
in death.

But Silvere could not believe she was dying. "No, you will see, it will
prove only a trifle," he declared. "Don't speak if it hurts you. Wait, I
will raise your head and then warm you; your hands are quite frozen."

But the fusillade had begun afresh, this time on the left, in the olive
plantations. A dull sound of galloping cavalry rose from the plain.
At times there were loud cries, as of men being slaughtered. And
thick clouds of smoke were wafted along and hung about the elms on the
esplanade. Silvere for his part no longer heard or saw anything. Pascal,
who came running down in the direction of the plain, saw him stretched
upon the ground, and hastened towards him, thinking he was wounded. As
soon as the young man saw him, he clutched hold of him and pointed to
Miette.

"Look," he said, "she's wounded, there, under the breast. Ah! how good
of you to come! You will save her."

At that moment, however, a slight convulsion shook the dying girl. A
pain-fraught shadow passed over her face, and as her contracted lips
suddenly parted, a faint sigh escaped from them. Her eyes, still wide
open, gazed fixedly at the young man.

Then Pascal, who had stooped down, rose again, saying in a low voice:
"She is dead."

Dead! Silvere reeled at the sound of the word. He had been kneeling
forward, but now he sank back, as though thrown down by Miette's last
faint sigh.

"Dead! Dead!" he repeated; "it is not