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to profound silence。 The yells of the combatants； the thud of colliding bodies； the clang of arms seemed as nothing after the cannon had quieted down。 He saw men pierced through the middle by gun points whose reddened ends came out through their kidneys； muskets raining hammer…like blows； adversaries that grappled in hand…to…hand tussles； rolling over and over on the ground； trying to gain the advantage by kicks and bites。
The mustard…colored fronts had entirely disappeared； and he now saw only backs of that color fleeing toward the exit； filtering among the trees； falling midway in their flight when hit by the pursuing balls。 Many of the invaders were unable to chase the fugitives because they were occupied in repelling with rude thrusts of their bayonets the bodies falling upon them in agonizing convulsions。
Don Marcelo suddenly found himself in the very thick of these mortal combats； jumping up and down like a child； waving his hands and shouting with all his might。 When he came to himself again； he was hugging the grimy head of a young French officer who was looking at him in astonishment。 He probably thought him crazy on receiving his kisses； on hearing his incoherent torrent of words。 Emotionally exhausted； the worn old man continued to weep after the officer had freed himself with a jerk。 。 。 。 He needed to give vent to his feelings after so many days of anguished self…control。 Vive la France！ 。 。 。
His beloved French were already within the park gates。 They were running； bayonets in hand； in pursuit of the last remnants of the German battalion trying to escape toward the village。 A group of horsemen passed along the road。 They were dragoons coming to complete the rout。 But their horses were fagged out； nothing but the fever of victory transmitted from man to beast had sustained their painful pace。 One of the equestrians came to a stop near the entrance of the park； the famished horse eagerly devouring the herbage while his rider settled down in the saddle as though asleep。 Desnoyers touched him on the hip in order to waken him； but he immediately rolled off on the opposite side。 He was dead； with his entrails protruding from his body； but swept on with the others； he had been brought thus far on his steady steed。
Enormous tops of iron and smoke now began falling in the neighborhood。 The German artillery was opening a retaliatory fire against its lost positions。 The advance continued。 There passed toward the North battalions； squadrons and batteries； worn； weary and grimy； covered with dust and mud； but kindled with an ardor that galvanized their flagging energy。
The French cannon began thundering on the village side。 Bands of soldiers were exploring the castle and the nearest woods。 From the ruined rooms； from the depths of the cellars； from the clumps of shrubbery in the park； from the stables and burned garage； came surging forth men dressed in greenish gray and pointed helmets。 They all threw up their arms； extending their open hands： 〃Kamarades 。 。 。 kamarades； non kaput。〃 With the restlessness of remorse； they were in dread of immediate execution。 They had suddenly lost all their haughtiness on finding that they no longer had any official powers and were free from discipline。 Some of those who knew a little French； spoke of their wives and children； in order to soften the enemies that were threatening them with their bayonets。 A brawny Teuton came up to Desnoyers and clapped him on the back。 It was Redbeard。 He pressed his heart and then pointed to the owner of the castle。 〃Franzosen 。 。 。 great friend of the Franzosen〃 。 。 。 and he grinned ingratiatingly at his protector。
Don Marcelo remained at the castle until the following morning； and was astounded to see Georgette and her mother emerge unexpectedly from the depths of the ruined lodge。 They were weeping at the sight of the French uniforms。
〃It could not go on；〃 sobbed the widow。 〃God does not die。〃
After a bad night among the ruins； the owner decided to leave Villeblanche。 What was there for him to do now in the destroyed castle？ 。 。 。 The presence of so many dead was racking his nerves。 There were hundreds； there were thousands。 The soldiers and the farmers were interring great heaps of them wherever he went； digging burial trenches close to the castle； in all the avenues of the park； in the garden paths； around the outbuildings。 Even the depths of the circular lagoon were filled with corpses。 How could he ever live again in that tragic community composed mostly of his enemies？ 。 。 。 Farewell forever； castle of Villeblanche！
He turned his steps toward Paris； planning to get there the best way he could。 He came upon corpses everywhere； but they were not all the gray…green uniform。 Many of his countrymen had fallen in the gallant offensive。 Many would still fall in the last throes of the battle that was going on behind them； agitating the horizon with its incessant uproar。 Everywhere red pantaloons were sticking up out of the stubble； hobnailed boots glistening in upright position near the roadside； livid heads； amputated bodies； stray limbsand； scattered through this funereal medley； red kepis and Oriental caps； helmets with tufts of horse hair； twisted swords； broken bayonets； guns and great mounds of cannon cartridges。 Dead horses were strewing the plain with their swollen carcasses。 Artillery wagons with their charred wood and bent iron frames revealed the tragic moment of the explosion。 Rectangles of overturned earth marked the situation of the enemy's batteries before their retreat。 Amidst the broken cannons and trucks were cones of carbonized material； the remains of men and horses burned by the Germans on the night before their withdrawal。
In spite of these barbarian holocausts corpses were every where in infinite numbers。 There seemed to be no end to their number； it seemed as though the earth had expelled all the bodies that it had received since the beginning of the world。 The sun was impassively flooding the fields of death with its waves of light。 In its yellowish glow； the pieces of the bayonets； the metal plates； the fittings of the guns were sparkling like bits of crystal。 The damp night； the rain； the rust of time had not yet modified with their corrosive action these relics of combat。
But decomposition had begun to set in。 Graveyard odors were all along the road； increasing in intensity as Desnoyers plodded on toward Paris。 Every half hour； the evidence of corruption became more pronouncedmany of the dead on this side of the river having lain there for three or four days。 Bands of crows； at the sound of his footsteps； rose up； lazily flapping their wings； but returning soon to blacken the earth； surfeited but not satisfied； having lost all fear of mankind。
From time to time； the sad pedestrian met living bands of men platoons of cavalry； gendarmes； Zouaves and chasseurs encamped around the ruined farmsteads； exploring the country in pursuit of German fugitives。 Don Marcelo had to explain his business there； showing the passport that Lacour had given him in order to make his trip on the military train。 Only in this way； could he continue his journey。 These sold