direction of the Rhine, a mile and a quarter from Mulhausen, the camp
was pitched. In the fitful light of the overcast August day, beneath
the lowering sky that was filled with heavy drifting clouds, the long
lines of squat white shelter-tents seemed to cower closer to the
ground, and the muskets, stacked at regular intervals along the
regimental fronts, made little spots of brightness, while over all the
sentries with loaded pieces kept watch and ward, motionless as
statues, straining their eyes to pierce the purplish mists that lay on
the horizon and showed where the mighty river ran.

It was about five o'clock when they had come in from Belfort; it was
now eight, and the men had only just received their rations. There
could be no distribution of wood, however, the wagons having gone
astray, and it had therefore been impossible for them to make fires
and warm their soup. They had consequently been obliged to content
themselves as best they might, washing down their dry hard-tack with
copious draughts of brandy, a proceeding that was not calculated
greatly to help their tired legs after their long march. Near the
canteen, however, behind the stacks of muskets, there were two
soldiers pertinaciously endeavoring to elicit a blaze from a small
pile of green wood, the trunks of some small trees that they had
chopped down with their sword-bayonets, and that were obstinately
determined not to burn. The cloud of thick, black smoke, rising slowly
in the evening air, added to the general cheerlessness of the scene.

There were but twelve thousand men there, all of the 7th corps that
the general, Felix Douay, had with him at the time. The 1st division
had been ordered to Froeschwiller the day before; the 3d was still at
Lyons, and it had been decided to leave Belfort and hurry to the front
with the 2d division, the reserve artillery, and an incomplete