eyes. No one spoke; they heard the strains of retreat again, but very
distant now, away at the extreme end of the camp, blended and lost
among the hum of other indistinguishable sounds.

"_Fichtre_!" exclaimed Honore, "I shall have the pleasure of sleeping
on the soft side of a plank in the guard-house unless I make haste
back to roll-call. Good-night--adieu, everybody!"

And grasping Weiss by both his hands and giving them a hearty squeeze,
he strode swiftly away toward the slight elevation where the guns of
the reserves were parked, without again mentioning his father's name
or sending any word to Silvine, whose name lay at the end of his
tongue.

The minutes slipped away, and over toward the left, where the 2d
brigade lay, a bugle sounded. Another, near at hand, replied, and then
a third, in the remote distance, took up the strain. Presently there
was a universal blaring, far and near, throughout the camp, whereon
Gaude, the bugler of the company, took up his instrument. He was a
tall, lank, beardless, melancholy youth, chary of his words, saving
his breath for his calls, which he gave conscientiously, with the
vigor of a young hurricane.

Forthwith Sergeant Sapin, a ceremonious little man with large vague
eyes, stepped forward and began to call the roll. He rattled off the
names in a thin, piping voice, while the men, who had come up and
ranged themselves in front of him, responded in accents of varying
pitch, from the deep rumble of the violoncello to the shrill note of
the piccolo. But there came a hitch in the proceedings.