that cut the immense plain of roofs. The three turned their heads so as to hear better.… The sound of voices cut through the thick silence of night—a masculine chorus chanting a hymn, simple, monotonous and solemn. They guessed at what it must be, although they could not hear very well. Various single notes floating with greater intensity on the night wind, enabled Argensola to piece together the short song, ending in a melodious, triumphant yell—a true war song:
C'est l'Alsace et la Lorraine,
C'est l'Alsace qu'il nous faut,
Oh, oh, oh, oh.
A new band of men was going away through the streets below, toward the railway station, the gateway of the war. They must be from the outlying districts, perhaps from the country, and passing through silence-wrapped Paris, they felt like singing of the great national hope, that those who were watching behind the dark façades might feel comforted, knowing that they were not alone.
"Just as it is in the opera," said Julio listening to the last notes of the invisible chorus dying away into the night.
Tchernoff continued drinking, but with a distracted air, his eyes fixed on the red cloud that floated over the roofs.
The two friends conjectured his mental labor from his concentrated look, and the low exclamations which were escaping him like the echoes of an interior monologue. Suddenly he leaped from thought to word without any forewarning, continuing aloud the course of his reasoning.
…"And when the sun arises in a few hours, the world, will see coursing through its fields the four horse-
