It is not day and it is not night; it is dawn perhaps.
Thirst and a deathly sickness are upon me.... I can go no farther. I lean my head against a tree, the rough bark of it wounds my forehead as I slip to the ground and fall on the damp leaves and moss.
I moan and cry.
"Hush! for the love of heaven! Hush!" ... It is Louise's voice. "Hide, hide, lie down!"
And she drags me into a deep ditch overgrown with brambles. We hear horses gallop past and men's voices, full guttural voices that we know and dread. They ride on. They are gone. No—they stop.
They have found widow Duroc's two little boys hiding in the bushes.... Little César is shouldering a wooden gun and points it at them. In a moment three of the men are off their horses.... The children must be punished.
The children are punished.
... Then the men ride on. But the torture of those children has reminded me of Mireille. "Mireille—" I cry. "We must go back and fetch Mireille!"
"Hush! Mireille is here."
Mireille is here! She is not dead? Then who is dead?