d she
sat down under the shed, a few paces from the body. She stared at it,
wringing her hands. The Prussians had seized Pere Merlier as a hostage.

It was a stirring combat. The officer had rapidly posted his men,
comprehending that he could not beat a retreat without being cut to
pieces. Hence he would fight to the last. Now the Prussians defended
the mill, and the French attacked it. The fusillade began with unusual
violence. For half an hour it did not cease. Then a hollow sound was
heard, and a ball broke a main branch of the old elm. The French had
cannon. A battery, stationed just above the ditch in which Dominique had
hidden himself, swept the wide street of Rocreuse. The struggle could
not last long.

Ah, the poor mill! Balls pierced it in every part. Half of the roof was
carried away. Two walls were battered down. But it was on the side of
the Morelle that the destruction was most lamentable. The ivy, torn from
the tottering edifice, hung like rags; the river was encumbered with
wrecks of all kinds, and through a breach was visible Francoise's
chamber with its bed, the white curtains of which were carefully closed.
Shot followed shot; the old wheel received two balls and gave vent to
an agonizing groan; the buckets were borne off by the current; the
framework was crushed. The soul of the gay mill had left it!

Then the French began the assault. There was a furious fight with swords
and bayonets. Beneath the rust-colored sky the valley was choked with
the dead. The broad meadows had a wild look with their tall, isolated
trees and their hedges of poplars which stained them with shade. To
the right and to the left the forests were like the walls of an ancient
ampitheater which enclosed the fighting gladiators, while the springs,
the fountains and the flowing brooks seemed to sob amid the panic of the
country.

Beneath the shed Francoise still sat near Dominique's body; she had
not moved. Pere Merlier had received a slight wound. The Prussians were
exterminated, but the ruined mill was on fire in a dozen places. The
French rushed into the courtyard, headed by their captain. It was his
first success of the war. His face beamed with triumph. He waved his
sword, shouting:

"Victory! Victory!"

On seeing the wounded miller, who was endeavoring to comfort Francoise,
and noticing the body of Dominique, his joyous look changed to one
of sadness. Then he knelt beside the young man and, tearing open his
blouse, put