Victorious, in single file, preceded by their corporal, they advance by a dark, narrow passage between two tents. In the darkness the sentinels stumble over the pegs, get entangled in the stretched cords, fall, and in their fall drop the dishes and saucepans with which they are encumbered. From this narrow way, where it is as dark as the grave, a tumult arises, the dull sound of falling bodies, the oaths of those who have been thrown down, and of those they have knocked against. They are cursed and hustled as “stupid geese,” who could not pay attention and who hurt the others with their weapons. It is a deafening noise, and causes indescribable joy to the prisoners huddled in the tents. At last the little detachment has gained the lighted part. Once united, the Huns continue their progress in silence and good order to the guardhouse. They do not look like conquerors. Inconvenienced by the food they carry, encumbered by kitchen utensils, embarrassed by the wood under their arms, they walk with hanging heads and woeful faces. They have burnt their fingers, they have floundered through puddles, in their fall they have covered their uniforms and helmets with mud. The condensed milk flows from the open tins, making their hands sticky, staining their things; the saucepans leave traces of soot on their tunics and trousers, the half-burnt wood blackens their chests and sleeves. Dirty, grotesque, their helmets on one side, made more ridiculous still by the rage they feel, furious at returning without a prisoner, ashamed and vexed like marauders caught in the act, they defile under the mocking eyes of the prisoners, who do not hide their amusement and begin to jest at these underlings who rob the poor. The next day the market will drive as good a trade, the customers will be just as numerous; the Café Biard will peacefully continue its flourishing business. The Huns will scarcely care to renew their escapade; they have only gained a Pyrrhic victory. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE PILLORY] CHAPTER VI