see whether my little Chasseur was not still lying out on the scene of
the charge.

"Cahard, Finet, Mouniette, Vallée, I want you."

At a gentle trot we sallied out from the cover of the wood. My four
men, dispersed at wide intervals to my right and left, stood up in
their stirrups from time to time to get a better view.

The guns were silent. Now and again one or two isolated shots were
heard. Night had almost fallen. On the horizon a long reddish streak
of light still gave a feeble glow. Everything was becoming blurred and
mysterious. In front of us stretched the disquieting mass of the wood
that so lately had rained death on us. Above our heads flocks of black
birds were wheeling and croaking.

"Paquin!... Paquin!... Paquin!..."

My Chasseurs shouted their comrade's name; but no voice answered. We
were certainly on the ground the squadron had ridden over. Every now
and then we came across the body of a horse, marking our mournful
course. A poor mare with a broken leg neighed feebly, as if appealing
for help to her stable-companions.

"Paquin!... Paquin!... Paquin!..."

No response. We had to turn back and rejoin the others. War has many
of those moments of pain when we have to control our feelings--forget
those we love, those who are suffering, those who are dying--and think
of nothing but our regiment, our squadron, our troop. Paquin's name