women and
children.

If the rout of an army is terrible, that of a people is infinitely more
so. This flight from home and fireside is sad beyond expression. These
peasants were running, carrying on their shoulders all that they held
most precious. Their houses had been searched, for these peasants had
served in the rising of '92, and they probably had arms. An old man was
shot for concealing a pistol. At another place brutes had insulted the
women, and burned the cottages deserted by the fugitives. This was the
day that Napoleon Bonaparte had replied to the _corps legislatif_, who
supplicated him to return to the people their lost liberty: "France is a
man!--I am that man--with my will, my fame, and my power!"

The woodcutters now returned, dragging the huge wagon they had dug out
of the snow-drifts. Simon rapidly explained to several peasants the
preparations he had made, and under his instructions they hastened to
remove the wounded from the wagon. It was a terrible sight--eleven out
of the twenty-eight were dead. But in fifteen minutes the living were
lying on the fresh straw spread in the school-room, and Simon and his
wife were going from one to another of these poor sufferers, alleviating
their sufferings as far as possible. Suddenly a great noise was heard
without, followed by the most profound silence. Simon started.

"What was that!" he asked, quickly.

The door opened, and Michel appeared.

"The Cossacks!" he cried. "Come, Master Simon, come!"

Simon obeyed, signing to his wife to take his place. He went outside,
and beheld some twenty men mounted on thin but vigorous-looking horses.
The men were of medium height, bearded like goats and ugly as monkeys.
They wore loose robes fastened into the waists with red scarfs. On their
heads were high cylindrical caps. Some wore over their shoulders cloaks
of bear skins. Their high saddles formed boxes in which they could pack
away their booty. They looked down on the crowd with small, twinkling
eyes set far in under bushy brows and low foreheads. At their head was
an officer in the Austrian uniform.

The crowd fled to the further end of the open space, and the women
clasped their crying children to their breasts. Simon walked directly
toward the officer.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" he asked, politely but firmly.

The officer did not seem to hear him--he was looking intently at the
inn. Simon repeated his question, this time in German. The Austrian