"The Forty-Third does not want you. Nor the army. Nor France."
Oh, yes, he remembered that; would always remember it. He laid down the paper. His head sank on his breast.
Vague shadows seemed to come from the distance; they enfolded him; they took his breath away. He shut his eyes.
Somewhere—to the east—he thought it very strange—he could hear voices singing:
"Amour sacré de la Patrie!"
Oh, yes, the marching song of the Forty-Third. They were fighting down there, near Lille, hanging on by their teeth.
There was a sound like the tearing of fine silk, a shrieking and whistling; then a sickening thud.
Sergeant Castel wiped his powder-blackened brows. He inserted another cartridge in his rifle, drew a bead, and fired. Then he turned to Lagrange, the lance-jack.
"The end, mon vieux! Presently they will eat us up."
Lagrange had no time to reply. His elbow was in continuous, jerky motion—load, fire—load, fire!
