the darkness. Suddenly he cried with joyous exultation: "Ah, here they
are! They've got the banner--the banner has been entrusted to them!"

Then he wanted to leap from the slope in order to join his companions.
At this moment, however, the insurgents halted. Words of command ran
along the column, the "Marseillaise" died out in a final rumble, and
one could only hear the confused murmuring of the still surging crowd.
Silvere, as he listened, caught the orders which were passed on from one
contingent to another; they called the men of Plassans to the van. Then,
as each battalion ranged itself alongside the road to make way for the
banner, the young man reascended the embankment, dragging Miette with
him.

"Come," he said; "we can get across the river before they do."

When they were on the top, among the ploughed land, they ran along to a
mill whose lock bars the river. Then they crossed the Viorne on a
plank placed there by the millers, and cut across the meadows of
Sainte-Claire, running hand-in-hand, without exchanging a word. The
column threw a dark line over the highway, which they followed alongside
the hedges. There were some gaps in the hawthorns, and at last Silvere
and Miette sprang on to the road through one of them.

In spite of the circuitous way they had come, they arrived at the same
time as the men of Plassans. Silvere shook hands with some of them. They
must have thought he had heard of the new route they had chosen, and had
come to meet them. Miette, whose face was half-concealed by her hood,
was scrutinised rather inquisitively.

"Why, it's Chantegreil," at last said one of the men from the Faubourg