direction--down the slope, toward the village.

"It's a black flag."

"A black flag! No--is it?"

"You can see for yourself that it is nothing else."

"It is a black flag, sure! Now, has any ever seen the like of that
before?"

"What can it mean?"

"Mean? It means something dreadful--what else?"

"That is nothing to the point; anybody knows that without the telling.
But what?--that is the question."

"It is a chance that he that bears it can answer as well as any that are
here, if you contain yourself till he comes."

"He runs well. Who is it?"

Some named one, some another; but presently all saw that it was Etienne
Roze, called the Sunflower, because he had yellow hair and a round
pock-marked face. His ancestors had been Germans some centuries ago. He
came straining up the slope, now and then projecting his flag-stick aloft
and giving his black symbol of woe a wave in the air, whilst all eyes
watched him, all tongues discussed him, and every heart beat faster and
faster with impatience to know his news. At last he sprang among us, and