The Baron read that many of the dead Arabs and Turcos at Freshweiler were found with fragments of human flesh--torn from the German wounded--between their jaws; that a Saxon officer, who had been struck by a bullet, and taken shelter in the house of a peasant, where he fainted from loss of blood, had his eyes torn out by a woman armed with a fork. These and many other details of atrocities, which actually found their way into the London papers, he read for the edification of the ladies, while Ernestine and Herminia exchanged glances of horror and commiseration, as much as to say how awful it was to think that those they loved so dearly had to run the risk of perils such as these! Even the Countess forgot her Spitz pug, and a piece of mysterious crochet, that seemed endless as the web of Penelope, while listening to the news, and far away from her peaceful home her thoughts followed her son, to where in the fields, the lanes, the valleys, and pretty hamlets of Alsace and Lorraine, and in places then rendered deserts, there lay in hundreds--yea, in thousands--the hopes of families, the heads of homes, the source of many a broken heart! Suddenly the Baron raised his voice, and a strange gleam passed over his face. 'Der Teufel!' he exclaimed; 'here is the name of a friend of yours--in the _Extra Blatt_? 'Of mine--who?' asked the Count. 'We regret to learn by a recent telegram from the seat of war that a party of the 95th Thuringian Regiment met with a severe misfortune, and lost two officers. Herr Lieutenant Pierrepont fell, it is believed, mortally wounded----' The Baron paused and changed colour; the Countess grew pale, but with a smile of grim satisfaction on her lips; the Count said: 'Poor fellow--poor fellow!' A low cry escaped Ernestine, who fell forward with her face on the table, and her arms stretched upon it at full length; but this emotion failed to avert the attention of the Baron, whose eyes, now dilated, were fixed on the newspaper. He was very pale, and shook his head slowly, as he said to the Count: 'Ach Gott--the worst is yet to come. Compose yourself, my dear friend.' 'Read--read--it is the name of my son--my Heinrich, that you see,' said the Countess, in a breathless voice. 'It is, madam. "Herr Lieutenant Pierrepont fell, it is believed, mortally wounded----"' 'You read that already; what matters it to me?' '"And the Herr Graf Von Frankenburg was taken prisoner, and _hanged by the Francs Tireurs_!" Oh, my friends,' added the Baron, 'I beseech you to suspend your grief for a time; it may all be some terrible mistake, to be cleared up in the end.' 'We seem fated to have startling tidings here!' groaned the poor old Count, as his wife flung herself in a passion of tears upon his breast. CHAPTER XVI. IN FRONT OF METZ. And now to relate that catastrophe which caused such grief and horror to the hearts of all in that hitherto peaceful German home.