flamed up.  The entire front was brilliantly illuminated; the long, regularly aligned array of stacks stood out against the darkness, and the ruddy blaze, reflected from the burnished barrels of the rifles, assumed the hue of new-shed blood; the erect, stern figures of the sentries became visible in the fiery glow.  Could it be the enemy, whose presence the leaders had been talking of for the past two days, and on whose trail they had come out from Belfort to Mulhausen?  Then a shower of sparks rose high in the air and the conflagration subsided.  It was only the pile of green wood that had been so long the object of Loubet’s and Lapoulle’s care, and which, after having smoldered for many hours, had at last flashed up like a fire of straw.

Jean, alarmed by the vivid light, hastily left the tent and was near falling over Maurice, who had raised himself on his elbow.  The darkness seemed by contrast more opaque than it had been before, and the two men lay stretched on the bare ground, a few paces from each other.  All that they could descry before them in the dense shadows of the night was the window of the farm-house, faintly illuminated by the dim candle, which shone with a sinister gleam, as if it were doing duty by the bedside of a corpse.  What time was it? two o’clock, or three, perhaps.  It was plain that the staff had not made acquaintance with their beds that night.  They could hear Bourgain-Desfeuilles’ loud, disputatious voice; the general was furious that his rest should be broken thus, and it required many cigars and toddies to pacify him.  More telegrams came in; things must be going badly; silhouettes of couriers, faintly drawn against the uncertain sky line, could be descried, galloping madly.  There was the sound of scuffling steps, imprecations, a smothered cry as of a man suddenly stricken down, followed by a blood-freezing silence.  What could it be?  Was it the end?  A breath, chill and icy as that from the lips of death, had passed over the camp that lay lost in slumber and agonized expectation.

It was at that moment that Jean and Maurice recognized in the tall, thin, spectral form that passed swiftly by, their colonel, de Vineuil.  He was accompanied by the regimental surgeon, Major Bouroche, a large man with a leonine face They were conversing in broken, unfinished sentences, whisperingly, such a conversation as we sometimes hear in dreams.

“It came by the way of Basle.  Our 1st division all cut to pieces.  The battle lasted twelve hours; the whole army is retreating—­”

The colonel’s specter halted and called by name another specter, which came lightly forward; it was an elegant ghost, faultless in uniform and equipment.

“Is that you, Beaudoin?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Ah! bad news, my friend, terrible news!  MacMahon beaten at Froeschwiller, Frossard beaten at Spickeren, and between them de Failly, held in check where he could give no assistance.  At Froeschwiller it was a single corps against an entire army; they fought like heroes.  It was a complete rout, a panic, and now France lies open to their advance—­”