Then his speech faltered; he could no longer find words to express himself; he was shaking with intense emotion. 'Listen, Silvine,' he said at last, 'if those swinish Prussians don't kill me I'll take you all the same; yes, we'll be married as soon as I get my discharge.' She sprang to her feet, gave a loud cry and fell in the young man's arms. She was quite unable to speak; all the blood in her veins had rushed to her face. Honoré seated himself on the chair and took her on his knees. 'I have thought it over,' said he, 'and in coming here to-night that was what I wanted to say to you. If my father refuses his consent, well, we'll go away together. The world is wide. And as for your little one, well, we can't strangle him. There'll be others coming by-and-by; among the brood I sha'n't be able to distinguish him.' So she was forgiven. Yet she struggled against this immense happiness, and at last she murmured, 'No, it isn't possible, it is too much. Some day, perhaps, you will regret it. But how good you are, Honoré; and how I love you!' He silenced her with a kiss on the lips. And she no longer had the strength to refuse the promised felicity, the happy life which she had thought for ever dead. With an involuntary irresistible impulse, she caught him in her arms, and in her turn kissed him, pressing him to her bosom with all her woman's strength, like a treasure regained that belonged to her alone, and which none should ever take from her. He was hers once more, he whom she had lost, and she would die rather than lose him again. At that moment a sound of commotion arose; the dense night was filled with the loud tumult of the reveille. Orders were being shouted, bugles rang out, and from the bare hills rose up a mass of shadowy forms that moved hither and thither, an indistinct, rolling sea flowing already towards the road. The fires on both banks were now going out, and one could merely discern confused, tramping masses of men, it being impossible to tell whether they were still crossing the river or not. Never, however, had the darkness been fraught with such anguish, such desperate fear. Old Fouchard now drew near to the window and called that the others were starting. His voice roused Jean and Maurice, who rose to their feet numbed and shivering. Honoré, meantime, had quickly pressed Silvine's hand in his own. 'It is sworn,' said he; 'wait for me.' She could not think of a word to answer, but she gave him a look into which she cast her whole soul, a last, long look as he sprang out of the window to join his battery at the double-quick. 'Good-bye, father.' 'Good-bye, my lad.' And that was all; the peasant and the soldier parted as they had met, without an embrace--like a father and son who do not need to see one another in order to live.