One door of the carriage was already torn off.
No sooner did the men about the fire hear the tread of the major's
horse than a hoarse cry, the cry of famine, arose,--
"A horse! a horse!"
Those voices formed but one voice.
"Back! back! look out for yourself!" cried two or three soldiers,
aiming at the mare. Philippe threw himself before his animal, crying
out,--
"You villains! I'll throw you into your own fire. There are plenty of
dead horses up there. Go and fetch them."
"Isn't he a joker, that officer! One, two--get out of the way," cried
a colossal grenadier. "No, you won't, hey! Well, as you please, then."
A woman's cry rose higher than the report of the musket. Philippe
fortunately was not touched, but Bichette, mortally wounded, was
struggling in the throes of death. Three men darted forward and
dispatched her with their bayonets.
"Cannibals!" cried Philippe, "let me at any rate take the horse-cloth
and my pistols."
"Pistols, yes," replied the grenadier. "But as for that horse-cloth,
no! here's a poor fellow afoot, with nothing in his stomach for two
days, and shivering in his rags. It is our general."
Philippe kept silence as he looked at the man, whose boots were worn
out, his trousers torn in a dozen places, while nothing but a ragged
fatigue-cap covered with ice was on his head.
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