Half conscious, Jean Oberlé replied: "Alsace——" but he could scarcely speak.
Rain was falling heavily; it hammered upon roof and doors, upon the trees and rocks surrounding the house. The tops of the trees shook and twisted in the storm like seaweed tossed upon the bosom of the ocean. The murmur of a million voices rose in harmony over the mountains, and thundered upon the night.
The wounded man listened—in his weakened state what did he hear? He smiled:
"It is France," he murmured; "she sings to me," and he fell back with closed eyes awaiting the dawn.
Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury, England.