Dominique was silent.

“So you persist in your infatuation, do you?”

“Kill me and end all this!” replied the young man.

Francoise, her hands clasped, supplicated him from afar.  She had forgotten everything; she would have advised him to commit an act of cowardice.  But Pere Merlier seized her hands that the Prussians might not see her wild gestures.

“He is right,” he whispered:  “it is better to die!”

The platoon of execution was there.  The officer awaited a sign of weakness on Dominique’s part.  He still expected to conquer him.  No one spoke.  In the distance violent crashes of thunder were heard.  Oppressive heat weighed upon the country.  But suddenly, amid the silence, a cry broke forth: 

“The French!  The French!”

Yes, the French were at hand.  Upon the Sauval highway, at the edge of the wood, the line of red pantaloons could be distinguished.  In the mill there was an extraordinary agitation.  The Prussian soldiers ran hither and thither with guttural exclamations.  Not a shot had yet been fired.

“The French!  The French!” cried Francoise, clapping her hands.

She was wild with joy.  She escaped from her father’s grasp; she laughed and tossed her arms in the air.  At last they had come and come in time, since Dominique was still alive!

A terrible platoon fire, which burst upon her ears like a clap of thunder, caused her to turn.  The officer muttered between his teeth: 

“Before everything, let us settle this affair!”

And with his own hand pushing Dominique against the wall of a shed he ordered his men to fire.  When Francoise looked Dominique lay upon the ground with blood streaming from his neck and shoulders.

She did not weep; she stood stupefied.  Her eyes grew fixed, and she sat down under the shed, a few paces from the body.  She stared at it, wringing her hands.  The Prussians had seized Pere Merlier as a hostage.

It was a stirring combat.  The officer had rapidly posted his men, comprehending that he could not beat a retreat without being cut to pieces.  Hence he would fight to the last.  Now the Prussians defended the mill, and the French attacked it.  The fusillade began with unusual violence.  For half an hour it did not cease.  Then a hollow sound was heard, and a ball broke a main branch of the old elm.  The French had cannon.  A battery, stationed just above the ditch in which Dominique had hidden himself, swept the wide street of Rocreuse.  The struggle could not last long.

Ah, the poor mill!  Balls pierced it in every part.  Half of the roof was carried away.  Two walls were battered down.  But it was on the side of the Morelle that the destruction was most lamentable.  The ivy, torn from the tottering edifice, hung like rags; the river was encumbered with wrecks of all kinds, and through a breach was visible Francoise’s chamber with its bed, the white curtains of which were carefully closed.  Shot followed shot; the old wheel received two balls and gave vent to an agonizing groan; the buckets were borne off by the current; the framework was crushed.  The soul of the gay mill had left it!