e is any change in the
state of affairs."

"No-none."

Then he gave a shrill whistle. Soon a dark mass loomed up under the
trees; the advance guard, composed of ten men.

"Don't go in front of the vent-hole!" repeated Long-legs at intervals.

And the first arrivals pointed out the much-dreaded vent-hole to those
who came after.

At last the main body of the troop arrived, in all two hundred men, each
carrying two hundred cartridges.

Monsieur Lavigne, in a state of intense excitement, posted them in such
a fashion as to surround the whole house, save for a large space left
vacant in front of the little hole on a level with the ground, through
which the cellar derived its supply of air.

Monsieur Lavigne struck the trap-door a blow with his foot, and called:

"I wish to speak to the Prussian officer!"

The German did not reply.

"The Prussian officer!" again shouted the commandant.

Still no response. For the space of twenty minutes Monsieur Lavigne
called on this silent officer to surrender with bag and baggage,
promising him that all lives should be spared, and that he and his men
should be accorded military honors. But he could extort no sign, either
of consent or of defiance. The situation became a puzzling one.

The citizen-soldiers kicked their heels in the snow, slapping their arms
across their chest, as cabdrivers do, to warm themselves, and gazing at
the vent-hole with a growing and childish desire to pass in front of it.

At last one of them took the risk-a man named Potdevin, who was fleet
of limb. He ran like a deer across the zone of danger. The experiment
succeeded. The prisoners gave no sign of life.

A voice cried:

"There's no one there!"

And another soldier crossed the open space before the dangerous
vent-hole. Then this hazardous sport developed into a game. Every
minute a man ran swiftly from one side to the other, like a boy playing
baseball, kicking up the snow behind him as he ran. They had lighted big
fires of dead wood at which to warm themselves, and the figures of the
runners were illumined by the flames as they passed rapidly from the
camp on the right to that on the left.

Some one shouted:

"It's your turn now, Maloison."

Maloison was a fat baker, whose corpulent person served to point many a
joke among his comrades.

He hesitated. They chaffed him. Then, nerving himself to the effort, he
set off at a little, waddling gait, which shook his fat paunch and made
the