A shriek escaped the startled girl, and she rushed indoors for her father, her _bonne_, and everybody else; assistance was soon procured, the sufferer carried indoors, placed in bed, his uniform hidden, for the Francs-Tireurs were hovering about, and medical aid was procured from the nearest village, in the person of a young doctor, Adolphe Guerrand, on whom, as an admirer of Célandine, they could rely for silence and secrecy. The thunder of war was an awful event to the inmates of that little secluded chateau, to none more than to Monsieur de Caillé, whose days were usually spent in dozing about his flower-garden, plucking off a faded leaf here and there, or training vines and sprays, and whose evenings were passed over a bottle of vin ordinaire with the Curé, or listening to Célandine's performances on a--well, it was _not_ a grand trichord piano, because it had been her grandmother's. Some days and nights elapsed--strange, drearily days and nights to Charlie Pierrepont, who only knew at times where, by a strange coincidence, he was. They were passed by him in a chaos or confusion of thought, in dreams of Ernestine, of the day in the Hoch Munster, and the evening in the church at Burtscheid, of battle-fields, with lines of red kepis, fierce bearded faces, and hedges of bristling bayonets looming through the smoke, of the roaring shriek of those dreadful mitrailleuses--the veritable invention of Satan; yea, even the scowl and curse of the French captain were not forgotten; but after a time Charlie's thoughts became coherent; he knew fully where he was; that a conical rifle bullet had been cut out of his back, near the spine, by the skilful hands of Adolphe Guerrand; that he had a narrow escape from death; that he was recovering, and had, as nurses, Célandine de Caillé and her kind old _bonne_. 'Ah! Célandine--Mademoiselle Célandine,' said he, taking the girl's tiny hand within his own, and just touching it with his lips, 'neither your holy water, nor the consecrated medal, acted as a charm. In what a condition have I come back to you!' 'But for my medal and the holy water, perhaps a cannon-ball might have taken off your head,' retorted little Mademoiselle de Caillé. 'True,' replied Charlie, as he kissed her hand again. Three weeks had elapsed since the battle in which Charlie had fallen wounded; two days after, as Célandine told him, Gravelotte had been fought, and then the French had been defeated after a dreadful struggle, and driven back to Metz. Strasbourg was besieged, Phalsburg bombarded, the Prussians were daily everywhere victorious. 'And, alas! monsieur,' said the little maid, clasping her pretty hands, and lifting upward eyes that were suffused with tears, 'France is lost! The glory of my France is gone! And surely now the cries of Melusine will be heard!' 'Melusine?' asked Charlie, with surprise. 'Who is she?' 'Don't you know, monsieur? Have you never heard of the "_Cris de Melusine_?"' 'Never.'