nothing but watch them, going along the roads.  What had their angels said to them?  Nay, but God knows.  I heard the sound; it was like the sound of the silver trumpets that travellers talk of; it was like music from heaven.  I turned to M. le Cure, who was standing by.  ‘What is it?’ I cried, ’you are their director—­you are an ecclesiastic—­you know what belongs to the unseen.  What is this that has been said to them?’ I have always thought well of M. le Cure.  There were tears running down his cheeks.

‘I know not,’ he said.  ’I am a miserable like the rest.  What they know is between God and them.  Me!  I have been of the world, like the rest.’

This is how we were left alone—­the men of the city—­to take what means were best to get back to our homes.  There were several left among us who had shared the enlightenment of the women, but these were not persons of importance who could put themselves at the head of affairs.  And there were women who remained with us, but these not of the best.  To see our wives go was very strange to us; it was the thing we wished most to see, the women and children in safety; yet it was a strange sensation to see them go.  For me, who had the charge of all on my hands, the relief was beyond description—­yet was it strange; I cannot describe it.  Then I called upon M. Barbou, who was trembling like a leaf, and gathered the chief of the citizens about me, including M. le Cure, that we should consult together what we should do.

I know no words that can describe our state in the strange circumstances we were now placed in.  The women and the children were safe:  that was much.  But we—­we were like an army suddenly formed, but without arms, without any knowledge of how to fight, without being able to see our enemy.  We Frenchmen have not been without knowledge of such perils.  We have seen the invader enter our doors; we have been obliged to spread our table for him, and give him of our best.  But to be put forth by forces no man could resist—­to be left outside, with the doors of our own houses closed upon us—­to be confronted by nothing—­by a mist, a silence, a darkness,—­this was enough to paralyse the heart of any man.  And it did so, more or less, according to the nature of those who were exposed to the trial.  Some altogether failed us, and fled, carrying the news into the country, where most people laughed at there, as we understood afterwards.  Some could do nothing but sit and gaze, huddled together in crowds, at the cloud over Semur, from which they expected to see fire burst and consume the city altogether.  And a few, I grieve to say, took possession of the little cabaret, which stands at about half a kilometre from the St. Lambert gate, and established themselves there, in hideous riot, which was the worst thing of all for serious men to behold.  Those upon whom I could rely I formed into patrols to go round the city, that no opening of a gate, or movement of those who were