"Thereupon we all lay down in the room, and before long all were sound
asleep.

"Next morning each one, without rousing his neighbor or seeking
companionship, set out again on his way, with that selfishness which
made our rout one of the most horrible dramas of self-seeking,
melancholy, and horror which ever was enacted under heaven.
Nevertheless, at about seven or eight hundred paces from our shelter
we, most of us, met again and walked on together, like geese led in
flocks by a child's wilful tyranny. The same necessity urged us all.

"Having reached a knoll where we could still see the farmhouse where
we had spent the night, we heard sounds resembling the roar of lions
in the desert, the bellowing of bulls--no, it was a noise which can be
compared to no known cry. And yet, mingling with this horrible and
ominous roar, we could hear a woman's feeble scream. We all looked
round, seized by I know not what impulse of terror; we no longer saw
the house, but a huge bonfire. The farmhouse had been barricaded, and
was in flames. Swirls of smoke borne on the wind brought us hoarse
cries and an indescribable pungent smell. A few yards behind, the
captain was quietly approaching to join our caravan; we gazed at him
in silence, for no one dared question him; but he, understanding our
curiosity, pointed to his breast with the forefinger of his right
hand, and, waving the left in the direction of the fire, he said,
'_Son'io_.'

"We all walked on without saying a word to him."

"There is nothing more terrible than the revolt of a sheep," said de
Marsay.