II.
We rushed out into the yard. Saint-Jory is situated at the bottom of a slope at about five hundred yards from the Garonne. Screens of tall poplars that divide the meadows, hide the river completely.
We could see nothing. And still the cry rang out:
“The Garonne! The Garonne!”
Suddenly, on the wide road before us, appeared two men and three women, one of them holding a child in her arms. It was they who were crying out, distracted, running with long strides. They turned at times, looking behind with terrified faces, as if a band of wolves was pursuing them.
“What’s the matter with them?” demanded Cyprien. “Do you see anything, grandfather?”
“No,” I answered. “The leaves are not even moving.”
I was still talking when an exclamation burst from us. Behind the fugitives there appeared, between the trunks of the poplars, amongst the large tufts of grass, what looked like a pack of gray beasts speckled with yellow. They sprang up from all directions, waves crowding waves, a helter-skelter of masses of foaming water, shaking the sod with the rumbling gallop of their hordes.
It was our turn to send forth the despairing cry:
“The Garonne! The Garonne!”