Then a heavy sigh like a groan escaped Michaud.
"The Lodge," he said, hoarsely, under his breath. "Oh God, my master's home."
All around among the rocks men were drawing deep breaths, muttering, restless; their eyes were fixed like the eyes of caged wild things.
"The Grey Wolves," growled an old garde—"Ah, the cowards—the dirty Prussian whelps! Ah! Look at that; my God! Marie adored, Virgin of Lesse; stand by us now!"
Against the sky specks like tinsel twinkled; smoke became visible.
"House, stables, granneries, quarters, garage, all are on fire," said Michaud in a mechanical voice. His face was grey and without expression, his words accentless.
The smoke appeared further north.
"The cattle-barns and the hay-stacks," he went on monotonously.... Beyond are the green-houses, runs, dove-cotes, and our little shop.... They are now afire... Everything is on fire. Lesse is burning, burning.... The stubble beyond is burning.... And beyond that the nursery acres—the seedlings and the—Marie adored, Virgin of Lesse, have pity on my little trees—my nurslings—my darlings——"
"Hark!" whispered Guild. Far away up the ride horses were coming at a heavy trot; and now the noise of wheels became audible. And now below them two German dragoons cantered into view, carbines poised; a waggon passed—a strange grey vehicle driven by a grey-clad soldier wearing a vizorless forage cap. It was piled with dead pigeons and chickens. Behind that another waggon followed, all splashed with blood, and in it swayed and jolted the carcasses of dead pigs freshly killed, lurching and slipping over the crimsoned straw. Behind galloped six Uhlans, their lances perpendicular in the buckets, the cords from their cloth-covered schapskas bellying behind.
"Not a shot!" said Michaud in a perfectly distinct voice, pushing up the rifle of the old garde-de-chasse. "There is nothing to do now, nom de Dieu!—for the necks of our fowls are already wrung and the dead hogs are tasting their own boudin. Our affair is with the living pigs."