The invaders were bombarding Villeblanche before attempting attack, as though fearing to encounter persistent resistance in its streets.  More projectiles fell.  Some passed over the houses, exploding between the hamlet and the castle.  The towers of the Desnoyers property were beginning to attract the aim of the artillerymen.  The owner was therefore about to abandon his dangerous observatory when he saw something white like a tablecloth or sheet floating from the church tower.  His neighbors had hoisted this signal of peace in order to avoid bombardment.  A few more missiles fell and then there was silence.

When Don Marcelo reached his park he found the Warden burying at the foot of a tree the sporting rifles still remaining in his castle.  Then he went toward the great iron gates.  The enemies were going to come, and he had to receive them.  While uneasily awaiting their arrival his compunctions again tormented him.  What was he doing there?  Why had he remained? . . .  But his obstinate temperament immediately put aside the promptings of fear.  He was there because he had to guard his own.  Besides, it was too late now to think about such things.

Suddenly the morning stillness was broken by a sound like the deafening tearing of strong cloth.  “Shots, Master,” said the Warden.  “Firing!  It must be in the square.”

A few minutes after they saw running toward them a woman from the village, an old soul, dried up and darkened by age, who was panting from her great exertion, and looking wildly around her.  She was fleeing blindly, trying to escape from danger and shut out horrible visions.  Desnoyers and the Keeper’s family listened to her explanations interrupted with hiccoughs of terror.

The Germans were in Villeblanche.  They had entered first in an automobile driven at full speed from one end of the village to the other.  Its mitrailleuse was firing at random against closed houses and open doors, knocking down all the people in sight.  The old woman flung up her arms with a gesture of terror. . . .  Dead . . . many dead . . . wounded . . . blood!  Then other iron-plated vehicles had stopped in the square, and behind them cavalrymen, battalions of infantry, many battalions coming from everywhere.  The helmeted men seemed furious; they accused the villagers of having fired at them.  In the square they had struck the mayor and villagers who had come forward to meet them.  The priest, bending over some of the dying, had also been trodden under foot. . . .  All prisoners!  The Germans were talking of shooting them.

The old dame’s words were cut short by the rumble of approaching automobiles.

“Open the gates,” commanded the owner to the Warden.  The massive iron grill work swung open, and was never again closed.  All property rights were at an end.

An enormous automobile, covered with dust and filled with men, stopped at the entrance.  Behind them sounded the horns of other vehicles that were putting on the brakes.  Desnoyers saw soldiers leaping out, all wearing the greenish-gray uniform with a sheath of the same tone covering the pointed casque.  The one who marched at their head put his revolver to the millionaire’s forehead.