“It is true,” the corporal assented; “the gentleman said we should be beaten.”

And the scene rose again before their mind’s eye, that night of anxious vigil, the agonized suspense, the prescience of the disaster at Froeschwiller hanging in the sultry heavy air, while the Alsatian told his prophetic fears; Germany in readiness, with the best of arms and the best of leaders, rising to a man in a grand outburst of patriotism; France dazed, a century behind the age, debauched, and a prey to intestine disorder, having neither commanders, men, nor arms to enable her to cope with her powerful adversary.  How quickly the horrible prediction had proved itself true!

Weiss raised his trembling hands.  Profound sorrow was depicted on his kind, honest face, with its red hair and beard and its great prominent blue eyes.

“Ah!” he murmured, “I take no credit to myself for being right.  I don’t claim to be wiser than others, but it was all so clear, when one only knew the true condition of affairs!  But if we are to be beaten we shall first have the pleasure of killing some of those Prussians of perdition.  There is that comfort for us; I believe that many of us are to leave their bones there, and I hope there will be plenty of Prussians to keep them company; I would like to see the ground down there in the valley heaped with dead Prussians!” He arose and pointed down the valley of the Meuse.  Fire flashed from his myopic eyes, which had exempted him from service with the army.  “A thousand thunders!  I would fight, yes, I would, if they would have me.  I don’t know whether it is seeing them assume the airs of masters in my country—­in this country where once the Cossacks did such mischief; but whenever I think of their being here, of their entering our houses, I am seized with an uncontrollable desire to cut a dozen of their throats.  Ah! if it were not for my eyes, if they would take me, I would go!” Then, after a moment’s silence:  “And besides; who can tell?”

It was the hope that sprang eternal, even in the breast of the least confident, of the possibility of victory, and Maurice, ashamed by this time of his tears, listened and caught at the pleasing speculation.  Was it not true that only the day before there had been a rumor that Bazaine was at Verdun?  Truly, it was time that Fortune should work a miracle for that France whose glories she had so long protected.  Henriette, with an imperceptible smile on her lips, silently left the room, and was not the least bit surprised when she returned to find her brother up and dressed, and ready to go back to his duty.  She insisted, however, that he and Jean should take some nourishment first.  They seated themselves at the table, but the morsels choked them; their stomachs, weakened by their heavy slumber, revolted at the food.  Like a prudent old campaigner Jean cut a loaf in two halves and placed one in Maurice’s sack, the other in his own.  It was growing dark, it behooved them to be going.  Henriette, who was standing at the window watching the Prussian troops incessantly defiling on distant la Marfee, the swarming legions of black ants that were gradually being swallowed up in the gathering shadows, involuntarily murmured: