f
the soldiers and of their officers is confirmed by all
impartial historical writers.--EDITOR.

At that moment the gendarme Rengade roughly opened a way for himself
through the crowd of inquisitive idlers. As soon as he heard that the
troops had returned with several hundred insurgents, he had risen
from bed, shivering with fever, and risking his life in the cold, dark
December air. Scarcely was he out of doors when his wound reopened, the
bandage which covered his eyeless socket became stained with blood,
and a red streamlet trickled over his cheek and moustache. He looked
frightful in his dumb fury with his pale face and blood-stained bandage,
as he ran along closely scrutinising each of the prisoners. He followed
the beams, bending down and going to and fro, making the bravest shudder
by his abrupt appearance. And, all of a sudden: "Ah! the bandit, I've
got him!" he cried.

He had just laid his hand on Silvere's shoulder. Silvere, crouching down
on a beam, with lifeless and expressionless face, was looking straight
before him into the pale twilight, with a calm, stupefied air. Ever
since his departure from Sainte-Roure, he had retained that vacant
stare. Along the high road, for many a league, whenever the soldiers
urged on the march of their captives with the butt-ends of their rifles,
he had shown himself as gentle as a child. Covered with dust, thirsty
and weary, he trudged onward without saying a word, like one of those
docile animals that herdsmen drive along. He was thinking of Miette. He
ever saw her lying on the banner, under the trees with her eyes turned
upwards. For three days he had seen none but her; and at this very
moment, amidst the growing darkness, he still saw her.

Rengade turned towards the officer, who had failed to find among the
soldiers the requisite men for an execution.

"This villain put my eye out," he said, pointing to Silvere. "Hand him
over to me. It's as good as done for you."

The officer did not reply in words, but withdrew with an air of
indifference, making a vague gesture. The gendarme understood that the
man was surrendered to him.

"Come, get up!" he resumed, as he shook him.

Silvere, like all the other prisoners, had a companion attached to him.
He was fastened by the arm to a peasant of Poujols named Mourgue, a man
about fifty, who had been brutified by the scorching sun and the
hard labour of tilling the ground. Crooked-backed already, his hands
hardened