louder. I saw a grey pile in a corner, flew to it with a cry of
joy, and found that it was only dust. Then I got back to the
side of the door where no bullets could ever reach me--they were
streaming freely into the room--and I tried to forget this
fiendish howling in my ear and to think out where this train
could be. It must have been carefully laid by Hubert lest these
nuns should see it. I tried to imagine how I should myself have
arranged it had I been in his place.

My eye was attracted by a statue of St. Joseph which stood in the
corner. There was a wreath of leaves along the edge of the
pedestal, with a lamp burning amidst them. I rushed across to it
and tore the leaves aside.

Yes, yes, there was a thin black line, which disappeared through
a small hole in the wall. I tilted over the lamp and threw
myself on the ground. Next instant came a roar like thunder, the
walls wavered and tottered around me, the ceiling clattered down
from above, and over the yell of the terrified Spaniards was
heard the terrific shout of the storming column of Grenadiers.
As in a dream--a happy dream--I heard it, and then I heard no
more.

When I came to my senses two French soldiers were propping me up,
and my head was singing like a kettle.

I staggered to my feet and looked around me. The plaster had
fallen, the furniture was scattered, and there were rents in the
bricks, but no signs of a breach. In fact, the walls of the
convent had been so solid that the explosion of the magazine had