Just as he was about to leave the place, his attention was attracted by the sight of four feet protruding beyond the corner of a low wall in the yard. These feet were smaller than those which he had previously seen; there were shoes upon them, and as he drew near he perceived that they were the feet of women. Two women were lying side by side behind the wall, also shot. Tellmarch stooped over them. One of them wore a kind of uniform; beside her was a jug, broken and empty. She was a vivandière. She had four balls in her head. She was dead. [Illustration 033] Tellmarch examined the other, who was a peasant woman. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open, her face discolored; but there were no wounds in her head. Her dress, undoubtedly worn to shreds by long marches, was rent by her fall, exposing her bosom. Tellmarch pushed it still further aside, and discovered on her shoulder a round wound made by a ball; the shoulder-blade was broken. He gazed upon her livid breast. "A nursing mother," he murmured. He touched her. She was not cold. The broken bone and the wound in the shoulder were her only injuries. He placed his hand on her breast, and felt a faint throb. She was not dead. Tellmarch raised himself, and cried out in a terrible voice,-- "Is there no one here?" "Is that you, Caimand?" replied a voice, so low that it could scarcely be heard. At the same time a head emerged from a hole in the ruin, and the next moment a second one peered forth from another aperture. These were the sole survivors,--two peasants who had managed to hide themselves, and who now, reassured by the familiar voice of the Caimand, crept out of the hiding-places where they had been crouching. They approached Tellmarch, still trembling violently. The latter had found strength to utter his cry, but he could not speak; deep emotions always produce this effect. He pointed to the woman lying at his feet. "Is she still alive?" asked one of the peasants. Tellmarch nodded. "And the other woman,--is she living too?" asked the second peasant. Tellmarch shook his head. The peasant who had been the first to show himself continued:-- "All the others are dead, are they not? I saw it all. I was in my cellar. How grateful one is to God, in times like these, to have no family! My house was burned. Lord Jesus! everybody was killed. This woman had children,--three little ones! The children cried, 'Mother!' The mother cried, 'Oh, my children!' They killed the mother and carried away the children. I saw all,--oh, my God! my God! Those who murdered them went off well pleased. They carried away the little ones, and killed the mother. But she is not dead, is she? I say, Caimand, do you think you could save her? Don't you want us to help you carry her to your _carnichot?_" [Illustration 034] Tellmarch nodded.