Jack turned and caught Lorraine in both arms, and jumped to a sidewalk crowded with soldiers, and at the same time the crush of wagons ground the dog-cart to splinters on the cobble-stones. The crowd choked every inch of the pavement—women, children, soldiers, shouting out something that seemed to move the masses to delirium. Jack, his arm around Lorraine, beat his way forward through the throng, murmuring anxiously, "Are you hurt, Lorraine? Are you hurt?" And she replied, faintly, "No, Jack. Oh, what is it? What is it?"
Soldiers blocked his way now, but he pushed between them towards a cleared space on a slope of grass. Up the slope he staggered and out on to a stone terrace above the crush of the street. An officer stood alone on the terrace, pulling at some ropes around a pole on the parapet.
"What—what is that?" stammered Lorraine, as a white flag shot up along the flag-staff and fluttered drearily over the wall.
"Lorraine!" cried Jack; but she sprang to the pole and tore the ropes free. The white flag fell to the ground.
The officer turned to her, his face whiter than the flag. The crowd in the street below roared.
"Monsieur," gasped Lorraine, "France is not conquered! That flag is the flag of dishonour!"
They stared at each other in silence, then the officer stepped to the flag-pole and picked up the ropes.
"Not that!—not that!" cried Lorraine, shuddering.
"It is the Emperor's orders."
The officer drew the rope tight—the white flag crawled slowly up the staff, fluttered, and stopped.