er
flung its dead across the shallows of the island of Glaires; the
canal was untroubled by the ghastly freight of death that had
collected like logs on a boom below the village of Iges.

All day the tramp of Prussian patrols echoed along the stony
streets; all day the sinister outburst of the hoarse Bavarian
bugles woke the echoes behind the ramparts. Red Cross flags
drooped in the sunshine from churches, from banks, from every
barrack, every depot, every public building. The pest flags waved
gaily over the Asylum and the little Museum. A few appeared along
the Avenue Philippoteaux, others still fluttered on the Gothic
church and the convent across the Viaduc de Torcy. Three miles
away the ruins of the village of Bazeilles lay in the bright
September sunshine. Bavarian soldiers in greasy corvee lumbered
among the charred chaos searching for their dead.

The plain of Illy, the heights of La Moncelle, Daigny, Givonne,
and Frenois were vast cemeteries. Dredging was going on along the
river, whither the curious small boys of Sedan betook themselves
and stayed from morning till night watching the recovering of
rusty sabres, bayonets, rifles, cannon, and often more grewsome
flotsam. It was probably the latter that drew the small boys like
flies; neither the one nor the other are easily glutted with
horrors.

The silver trumpets of the Saxon Riders were chorusing the noon
call from the Porte de Paris when a long train crept into the
Sedan station and pulled up in the sunshine, surrounded by a
cordon of Hanover Riflemen. One by one the passengers passed into
the station, where passports were shown and apathetic commissaires
took charge of the baggage.

There were no hacks, no conveyances of any kind, so the tall,
white-bearded gentleman in black, who stood waiting anxiously for
his passport, gave his arm to an old lady, heavily veiled, and
bowed down with the sudden age that great grief brings. Beside
her walked a young girl, also in deep mourning.

A man on crutches directed them to the Place Turenne, hobbling
after them to murmur his thanks for the piece of silver the girl
slipped into his hands.

"The number on the house is 31," he repeated; "the pest flag is
no longer outside."

"The pest?" murmured the old man under his breath.

At that moment a young girl came out of the crowded station,
looking around her anxiously.

"Lorraine!" cried the white-haired man.

She was in his arms before he could move. Madam