Two uhlans ripped open were seen lying three kilometers away from the farmhouse. One of them still grasped in his hand his blood-stained weapon. He had fought and defended himself. A council of war having been immediately constituted, in the open air, in front of the farmhouse, the old man was brought before it. He was sixty-eight years old. He was small, thin, a little crooked, with long hands resembling the claws of a crab. His faded hair, scanty and slight, like the down on a young duck, allowed his scalp to be plainly seen. The brown, crimpled skin of his neck showed the big veins which sank under his jaws and reappeared at his temples. He was regarded in the district as a miser and a hard man in business transactions. He was placed standing between four soldiers in front of the kitchen table, which had been carried out of the house for the purpose. Five officers and the Colonel sat facing him. The Colonel was the first to speak. “Père Milon,” he said, in French, “since we came here we have had nothing to say of you but praise. You have always been obliging, and even considerate toward us. But to-day a terrible accusation rests on you, and the matter must be cleared up. How did you get the wound on your face?” The peasant gave no reply. The Colonel went on: “Your silence condemns you, Père Milon. But I want you to answer me, do you understand? Do you know who has killed the two uhlans who were found this morning near the crossroads?” The old man said in a clear voice: “It was I!” The Colonel, surprised, remained silent for a second, looking steadfully at the prisoner. Père Milon maintained his impassive demeanor, his air of rustic stupidity, with downcast eyes, as if he were talking to his cure. There was only one thing that could reveal his internal agitation, the way in which he slowly swallowed his saliva with a visible effort, as if he were choking. The old peasant's family--his son Jean, his daughter-in-law, and two little children stood ten paces behind, scared and dismayed. The Colonel continued: “Do you know also who killed all the scouts of our army whom we have found every morning, for the past month, lying here and there in the fields?” The old man answered with the same brutal impassiveness: “It was I!” “It is you, then, that killed them all?” “All of them-yes, it was I.” “You alone?” “I alone.” “Tell me the way you managed to do it?” This time the peasant appeared to be affected; the necessity of speaking at some length incommoded him. “I know myself. I did it the way I found easiest.” The Colonel proceeded: “I warn you, you must tell me everything. You will do well, therefore, to make up your mind about it at once. How did you begin it?” The peasant cast an uneasy glance toward his family, who remained in a listening attitude behind him. He hesitated for another second or so, then all of a sudden he came to a resolution on the matter.