great deal on my account, but go there all the same if you feel
inclined."

At that moment there was a movement over in the direction of the
farmhouse, and they beheld the straggler, the man who had been
arrested as a spy, come forth, free, accompanied only by a single
officer. He had likely had papers to show, or had trumped up a story
of some kind, for they were simply expelling him from the camp. In the
darkening twilight, and at the distance they were, they could not make
him out distinctly, only a big, square-shouldered fellow with a rough
shock of reddish hair. And yet Maurice gave vent to an exclamation of
surprise.

"Honore! look there. If one wouldn't swear he was the Prussian--you
know, Goliah!"

The name made the artilleryman start as if he had been shot; he
strained his blazing eyes to follow the receding shape. Goliah
Steinberg, the journeyman butcher, the man who had set him and his
father by the ears, who had stolen from him his Silvine; the whole
base, dirty, miserable story, from which he had not yet ceased to
suffer! He would have run after, would have caught him by the throat
and strangled him, but the man had already crossed the line of stacked
muskets, was moving off and vanishing in the darkness.

"Oh!" he murmured, "Goliah! no, it can't be he. He is down yonder,
fighting on the other side. If I ever come across him--"

He shook his fist with an air of menace at the dusky horizon, at the
wide empurpled stretch of eastern sky that stood for Prussia in his