without seeing the uhlans: they had retreated after the first attack,
but unfortunately we had not seen Piedelot either. Was he dead or a
prisoner? When night came, the captain proposed that we should go out
and look for him, and so the three of us started. At the cross-roads we
found a broken rifle and some blood, while the ground was trampled down,
but we did not find either a wounded man or a dead body, although we
searched every thicket, and at midnight we returned without having
discovered anything of our unfortunate comrade.

"It is very strange," the captain growled. "They must have killed him
and thrown him into the bushes somewhere; they cannot possibly have
taken him prisoner, as he would have called out for help. I cannot
understand it all." Just as he said that, bright, red flames shot up in
the direction of the inn on the high road, which illuminated the sky.

"Scoundrels! cowards!" he shouted. "I will bet they have set fire to the
two houses on the market-place, in order to have their revenge and then
they will scuttle off without saying a word. They will be satisfied with
having killed a man and setting fire to two houses. All right. It shall
not pass over like that. We must go for them; they will not like to
leave their illuminations in order to fight."

"It would be a great stroke of luck, if we could set Piedelot free at
the same time," some one said.

The five of us set off, full of rage and hope. In twenty minutes we had
got to the bottom of the _coulee_, and we had not yet seen anyone, when
we had got within a hundred yards of the inn. The fire was behind the
house, and so all that we saw of it was the reflection above the roof.
However, we were walking rather slowly, as we were afraid of a trap,
when suddenly we heard Piedelot's well-known voice. It had a strange
sound, however, for it was at the same time dull and vibrating, stifled
and clear, as if he was calling out as loud as he could with a bit of
rag stuffed into his mouth. He seemed to be hoarse and panting, and the
unlucky fellow kept exclaiming: "Help! Help!"

We sent all thoughts of prudence to the devil, and in two bounds we were
at the back of the inn, where a terrible sight met our eyes.

IV

Piedelot was being burnt alive. He was writhing in the middle of a heap
of fagots, against a stake to which they had fastened him, and the
flames were licking him with their sharp tongues. When he saw us, his
tongue seemed to stick in hi