After a few moments more dragoons came, trotting their superb horses along the ride, alertly scanning the woods to right and left as they passed, their carbines at a ready.
Waggons followed—hay waggons, carts loaded with potato sacks, straw, apples, bags of flour, even firewood and bundles of faggots—a dozen vehicles or more of every description.
"Ours," said Michaud in his emotionless tones. "What they could not take is burning yonder."
More grey dragoons closed the file of waggons, then a dozen Uhlans, who turned frequently in their saddles and kept looking back.
"Scoundrels!" muttered the garde-de-chasse, laying his rifle level; but Michaud turned on him and struck up the weapon.
"Thou!" he said coldly—"do thy duty when I tell thee, or I become angry."
Somebody said: "There are no more. We have not bled one single wolf!"
"Look yonder," whispered Guild.
Out into the carrefour stepped briskly eight or ten German officers, smart and elegant and trim in their sea-grey uniforms and their spiked helmets shrouded with grey so that there was not a glitter from point to spur.
A dozen non-commissioned officers followed, carrying two military rifles apiece.