She touched Paule’s body as it pressed against her. She enfolded her in her arms, and holding her jealously, lifting up her wet eyes, but not stirring, she continued to pray like a marble Niobe entreating Fate to spare her last child. The first lights of dawn appeared. Then morning came, one of those winter days whose cold light makes the snow shiver. The old woman was still praying. From God she drew unconquerable strength. Singled out by sorrow, she must drain the cup of bitterness to its very dregs. When Paule awoke she saw her mother, pale and frozen, smiling faintly at her. She could not get her to rest nor even to take any food. More stooped than ever and ten years older, Madame Guibert sat down at her desk and began to write in a firm hand to her absent daughter and sons that they might take their own share in the recent sorrow. CHAPTER IV THE PAGEANTRY OF DEATH The chief occupation of the Mayor of Cognin in the morning was to read his paper. With the exception of the workmen from the neighboring factories, who came in the early morning to the inn and stood at the bar to drink their small glass of white wine by the wavering light of a candle, he saw few customers till mid-day. Seated astride a chair, his back to the fire, he provided himself for the day with the political news in the _Lyons Republican_ and _Le Progrès_. Thus after luncheon he was able to retail to the electors both wine and news. When on the morning of February 26th he unfolded the papers, he was horrified to see this great headline across the page: “Victory at Timmimun. Death of Commander Guibert.” It had never occurred to him that the death of a fellow-townsman of his could cause such a stir. With a red face, and vaguely uneasy about his own responsibility, he began to read slowly the grim official story that the journalist had adorned with several pompous phrases.