An abrupt stoppage of the motor made him look around involuntarily.  This time the obstruction was the dead bodies in the street—­two men and a woman.  They had probably fallen under the rain of bullets from the machine gun which had passed through the town preceding the invasion.  Some soldiers were seated a little beyond them, with their backs to the victims, as though ignoring their presence.  The chauffeur yelled to them to clear the track; with their guns and feet they pushed aside the bodies still warm, at every turn leaving a trail of blood.  The space was hardly opened before the vehicle shot through . . . a thud, a leap—­the back wheels had evidently crushed some very fragile obstacle.

Desnoyers was still huddled in his seat, benumbed and with closed eyes.  The horror around him made him think of his own fate.  Whither was this lieutenant taking him? . . .

He soon saw the town hall flaming in the square; the church was now nothing but a stone shell, bristling with flames.  The houses of the prosperous villagers had had their doors and windows chopped out by axe-blows.  Within them soldiers were moving about methodically.  They entered empty-handed and came out loaded with furniture and clothing.  Others, in the upper stories, were flinging out various objects; accompanying their trophies with jests and guffaws.  Suddenly they had to come out flying, for fire was breaking out with the violence and rapidity of an explosion.  Following their footsteps was a group of men with big boxes and metal cylinders.  Someone at their head was pointing out the buildings into whose broken windows were to be thrown the lozenges and liquid streams which would produce catastrophe with lightning rapidity.

Out of one of these flaming buildings two men, who seemed but bundles of rags, were being dragged by some Germans.  Above the blue sleeves of their military cloaks Don Marcelo could distinguish blanched faces and eyes immeasurably distended with suffering.  Their legs were dragging on the ground, sticking out between the tatters of their red pantaloons.  One of them still had on his kepis.  Blood was gushing from different parts of their bodies and behind them, like white serpents, were trailing their loosened bandages.  They were wounded Frenchmen, stragglers who had remained in the village because too weak to keep up with the retreat.  Perhaps they had joined the group which, finding its escape cut off, had attempted that insane resistance.

Wishing to make that matter more clearly understood, Desnoyers looked at the official beside him, attempting to speak; but the officer silenced him instantly:  “French sharpshooters in disguise who are going to get the punishment they deserve.”  The German bayonets were sunk deep into their bodies.  Then blows with the guns fell on the head of one of them . . . and these blows were repeated with dull thumps upon their skulls, crackling as they burst open.

Again the old man wondered what his fate would be.  Where was this lieutenant taking him across such visions of horror? . . .