Before us lay the cloud that was Semur, a darkness defined by the shining of the summer day around, the river escaping from that gloom as from a cavern, the towers piercing through, but the sunshine thrown back on every side from that darkness.  I have spoken of the walls as if we saw them, but there were no walls visible, nor any gate, though we all turned like blind men to where the Porte St. Lambert was.  There was the broad vacant road leading up to it, leading into the gloom.  We stood there at a little distance.  Whether it was human weakness or an invisible barrier, how can I tell?  We stood thus immovable, with the trumpet pealing out over us, out of the cloud.  It summoned every man as by his name.  To me it was not wonderful that this impression should come, but afterwards it was elicited from all that this was the feeling of each.  Though no words were said, it was as the calling of our names.  We all waited in such a supreme agitation as I cannot describe for some communication that was to come.

When suddenly, in a moment, the trumpet ceased; there was an interval of dead and terrible silence; then, each with a leap of his heart as if it would burst from his bosom, we saw a single figure slowly detach itself out of the gloom.  ‘My God!’ I cried.  My senses went from me; I felt my head go round like a straw tossed on the winds.

To know them so near, those mysterious visitors—­to feel them, to hear them, was not that enough?  But, to see! who could bear it?  Our voices rang like broken chords, like a tearing and rending of sound.  Some covered their faces with their hands; for our very eyes seemed to be drawn out of their sockets, fluttering like things with a separate life.

Then there fell upon us a strange and wonderful calm.  The figure advanced slowly; there was weakness in it.  The step, though solemn, was feeble; and if you can figure to yourself our consternation, the pause, the cry—­our hearts dropping back as it might be into their places—­the sudden stop of the wild panting in our breasts:  when there became visible to us a human face well known, a man as we were.  ‘Lecamus!’ I cried; and all the men round took it up, crowding nearer, trembling yet delivered from their terror; some even laughed in the relief.  There was but one who had an air of discontent, and that was M. le Cure.  As he said ‘Lecamus!’ like the rest, there was impatience, disappointment, anger in his tone.

And I, who had wondered where Lecamus had gone; thinking sometimes that he was one of the deserters who had left us!  But when he came nearer his face was as the face of a dead man, and a cold chill came over us.  His eyes, which were cast down, flickered under the thin eyelids in which all the veins were visible.  His face was gray like that of the dying.  ‘Is he dead?’ I said.  But, except M. le Cure, no one knew that I spoke.

‘Not even so,’ said M. le Cure, with a mortification in his voice, which I have never forgotten.  ’Not even so.  That might be something.  They teach us not by angels—­by the fools and offscourings of the earth.’