All at once the squad was awakened by the report of a firearm. The night was still dense, it could scarcely be three o'clock. In a moment they were all on foot, and the alert passed through the camp, everyone believing that the enemy was attacking them. But it was only that hungry fellow Loubet, who, having woke up, had plunged into the neighbouring wood in the idea that there must be some rabbits there. What a feast they would have if, at the first gleam of light, he could bring a couple of rabbits back to his comrades! But whilst he was seeking a good spot to post himself, he heard some men coming towards him, talking together and breaking the branches, and thereupon he had fired in dismay, thinking that he had to deal with some Prussians. Maurice, Jean, and others were already reaching the spot, when a gruff voice shouted, 'In God's name don't shoot!' At the edge of the wood they then perceived a tall, thin man, whose thick bushy beard could be but imperfectly distinguished. He wore a grey blouse, tightened at the waist by a red sash; and carried a gun slung over his shoulder. He at once explained that he was a Frenchman, a sergeant of Francs-tireurs, and that he had come from the woods of Dieulet with a couple of his men to give the general some information. 'Here, Cabasse! Ducat!' he shouted, turning round, 'here, you drones, make haste!' The two men had doubtless felt frightened. However, they now approached. Ducat was short, pale, and fat, with scanty hair; and Cabasse, tall and bony, with a dark face and a long nose like a knife-blade. Meantime Maurice, who had been scrutinising the sergeant with surprise, ended by asking him, 'Aren't you Guillaume Sambuc, of Remilly?' And when the sergeant, looking rather alarmed, had with some hesitation answered affirmatively, the young fellow instinctively fell back, for this man, Sambuc, had the reputation of being a terrible rogue, the true scion of a family of woodcutters, who had turned out very badly. The father, a drunkard, had been found one evening on the verge of a wood, with his throat cut; the mother and daughter, both thieves and beggars, had disappeared, but were doubtless leading a shameful life. Guillaume, the Franc-tireur, had been a smuggler and poacher in time of peace; and only one of this family of wolves had grown into an honest man--Prosper, the Chasseur d'Afrique, who, before becoming a soldier, had hired himself out as a farm hand in his hatred of forest life. 'I saw your brother at Rheims and Vouziers,' resumed Maurice. 'He was all right.' Sambuc made no answer to this, but to hasten matters exclaimed: 'Take me to the general. Tell him that some Francs-tireurs of the Dieulet woods have something important to communicate to him.'