t him, his smile seemed to say, "Yes, I'm one of the
fighting party, and huzza! the action is for to-morrow morning!"

Of gunshots and battle he formed but an incomplete idea as yet; but they
fascinated him, for he came of a valiant race.

The strange writing of his letter made him anxious about Gaud, and he
drew near a porthole to read the epistle through. It was difficult amid
all those half-naked men pressing round, in the unbearable heat of the
gundeck.

As he thought she would do, in the beginning of her letter Granny Moan
explained why she had had to take recourse to the inexperienced hand of
an old neighbour:

"My dear child, I don't ask your cousin to write for me to-day, as she
is in great trouble. Her father died suddenly two days ago. It appears
that his whole fortune has been lost through unlucky gambling last
winter in Paris. So his house and furniture will have to be sold. Nobody
in the place was expecting this. I think, dear child, that this will
pain you as much as it does me.

"Gaos, the son, sends you his kind remembrance; he has renewed his
articles with Captain Guermeur of the _Marie_, and the departure for
Iceland was rather early this year, for they set sail on the first of
the month, two days before our poor Gaud's trouble, and he don't know of
it yet.

"But you can easily imagine that we shall not get them wed now, for she
will be obliged to work for her daily bread."

Sylvestre dwelt stupor-stricken; this bad news quite spoiled his glee at
going out to fight.

PART III -- IN THE SHADOW

CHAPTER I--THE SKIRMISH

Hark! a bullet hurtles through the air!

Sylvestre stops short to listen!

He is upon an infinite meadow, green with the soft velvet carpet of
spring. The sky is gray, lowering, as if to weigh upon one's very
shoulders.

They are six sailors reconnoitring among the fresh rice-fields, in a
muddy pathway.

Hist! again the whizz, breaking the silence of the air--a shrill,
continuous sound, a kind of prolonged _zing_, giving one a strong
impression that the pellets buzzing by might have stung fatally.

For the first time in his life Sylvestre hears that music. The bullets
coming towards a man have a different sound from those fired by himself:
the far-off report is attenuated, or not heard at all, so it is easier
to distinguish the sharp rush of metal as it swiftly passes by, almost
grazing one's ears.

Crack! whizz! ping! again and yet again! The balls fall in