The poor wretch moved and raised himself in the darkness. Burguet leaned toward him and said: "Come! Take courage! I have come to talk with you about your defence." And the other began to sob. When a man has been knocked down, torn to tatters, beaten till he cannot stand, when he knows that the law is against him, that he must die without seeing those whom he loves, he becomes as weak as a baby. Those who maltreat their prisoners are great villains. "Let us see!" said Burguet. "Sit down on the side of your camp-bed. What is your name? Where did you come from? Harmantier, give this man a little water to drink and wash himself!" "He has some, M. Burguet; he has some in the corner." "Ah, well!" "Compose yourself, my boy!" The more gently he spoke, the more did the poor fellow weep. At last, however, he said that his family lived near Gérarmer, in the Vosges; that his father's name was Mathieu Belin, and that he was a fisherman at Retournemer. Burguet drew every word out of his mouth; he wanted to know every particular about his father and mother, his brothers and sisters. I remember that his father had served under the Republic, and had even been wounded at Fleurus; that his oldest brother had died in Russia; that he himself was the second son taken from home by the conscription, and that there was still at home three sisters younger than himself. This came from him slowly; he was so prostrated by Winter's blows, that he moved and sank down like a soulless body. There was still another thing, Fritz, as you may think--the boy was young! and that brought to my mind the days when I used to go in two hours from Phalsburg to Marmoutier, to see Sorlé--Ah, poor wretch! As he told all this, sobbing, with his face in his hands, my heart melted within me. Burguet was quite overcome. When we were leaving, at the end of an hour, he said, "Come, let us be hopeful! You will be tried to-morrow.--Don't despair! Harmantier, we must give this man a cloak; it is dreadfully cold, especially at night. It is a bad business, my boy, but it is not hopeless. Try to appear as well as you can before the audience; the court-martial always thinks better of a man who is well dressed." When we were out, he said to me: "Moses, you send the man a clean shirt. His waistcoat is torn; don't forget to have him decently dressed every way; soldiers always judge of a man by his appearance." "Be easy about that," said I. The prison doors were closed, and we went across the market. "Now," said Burguet, "I must go in. I must think it over. It is well that the brother was left in Russia, and that the father has been in the service--it is something to make a point of." We had reached the corner of the rampart street; he kept on, and I went home more miserable than before.