“Scoundrels! cowards!” he shouted.  “I will bet they have set fire to the two houses on the market-place, in order to have their revenge and then they will scuttle off without saying a word.  They will be satisfied with having killed a man and setting fire to two houses.  All right.  It shall not pass over like that.  We must go for them; they will not like to leave their illuminations in order to fight.”

“It would be a great stroke of luck, if we could set Piedelot free at the same time,” some one said.

The five of us set off, full of rage and hope.  In twenty minutes we had got to the bottom of the coulee, and we had not yet seen anyone, when we had got within a hundred yards of the inn.  The fire was behind the house, and so all that we saw of it was the reflection above the roof.  However, we were walking rather slowly, as we were afraid of a trap, when suddenly we heard Piedelot’s well-known voice.  It had a strange sound, however, for it was at the same time dull and vibrating, stifled and clear, as if he was calling out as loud as he could with a bit of rag stuffed into his mouth.  He seemed to be hoarse and panting, and the unlucky fellow kept exclaiming:  “Help!  Help!”

We sent all thoughts of prudence to the devil, and in two bounds we were at the back of the inn, where a terrible sight met our eyes.

IV

Piedelot was being burnt alive.  He was writhing in the middle of a heap of fagots, against a stake to which they had fastened him, and the flames were licking him with their sharp tongues.  When he saw us, his tongue seemed to stick in his throat, he drooped his head, and seemed as if he were going to die.  It was only the affair of a moment to upset the burning pile, to scatter the embers, and to cut the ropes that fastened him.

Poor fellow!  In what a terrible state we found him.  The evening before, he had had his left arm broken, and it seemed as if he had been badly beaten since then, for his whole body was covered with wounds, bruises, and blood.  The flames had also begun their work on him, and he had two large burns, one on his loins, and the other on his right thigh, and his beard and his hair were scorched.  Poor Piedelot!

Nobody knows the terrible rage we felt at this sight!  We would have rushed headlong at a hundred thousand Prussians.  Our thirst for vengeance was intense but the cowards had run away, leaving their crime behind them.  Where could we find them now?  Meanwhile, however, the captain’s wife was looking after Piedelot, and dressing his wounds as best she could, while the captain himself shook hands with him excitedly and in a few minutes he came to himself.

“Good morning, captain, good morning, all of you,” he said.  “Ah! the scoundrels, the wretches!  Why twenty of them came to surprise us.”

“Twenty, do you say?”