However, the irregular firing did not
cease, every now and again sudden bursts of flame sped through the
clouds of smoke. A gruff voice, the voice of terror, shouted yet louder:
"Every man for himself! _Sauve qui peut!_" Some men took to flight,
throwing down their weapons and leaping over the dead. The others closed
their ranks. At last there were only some ten insurgents left. Two more
took to flight, and of the remaining eight three were killed at one
discharge.
The two children had remained there mechanically without understanding
anything. As the battalion diminished in numbers, Miette raised the
banner still higher in the air; she held it in front of her with
clenched fists as if it were a huge taper. It was completely riddled
by bullets. When Silvere had no more cartridges left in his pocket, he
ceased firing, and gazed at the carbine with an air of stupor. It was
then that a shadow passed over his face, as though the flapping wings
of some colossal bird had brushed against his forehead. And raising his
eyes he saw the banner fall from Miette's grasp. The child, her hands
clasped to her breast, her head thrown back with an expression of
excruciating suffering, was staggering to the ground. She did not utter
a single cry, but sank at last upon the red banner.
"Get up; come quickly," Silvere said, in despair, as he held out his
hand to her.
But she lay upon the ground without uttering a word, her eyes wide open.
Then he understood, and fell on his knees beside her.
Pages:
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344