quartermaster was right; and, in my heart, I admired
the shrewdness of the old drunkard. We kept on toward the wood,
Poitevin leading, and the others following, with our pieces cocked. We
marched slowly, stopping every hundred paces to listen. The shots grew
nearer; they were fired at intervals, and the quartermaster said:

"They are sharp-shooters reconnoitring a body of cavalry, for the
firing is all on one side."

It was true. In a few moments we perceived, through the trees, a
battalion of French infantry about to make their soup, and in the
distance, on the plain beyond, platoons of Cossacks defiling from one
village to another. A few skirmishers along the edge of the wood were
firing on them, but they were almost beyond musket-range.

"There are your people, young man," said Poitevin. "You are at home."

He had good eyes to read the number of a regiment at such a distance.
I could only see ragged soldiers with their cheeks and
famine-glistening eyes. Their great-coats were twice too large for
them, and fell in folds along their bodies like cloaks. I say nothing
of the mud; it was everywhere. No wonder the Germans were exultant,
even after our victory at Dresden.

We went toward a couple of little tents, before which three or four
horses were nibbling the scanty grass. I saw Colonel Lorain, who now
commanded the Third battalion--a tall, thin man, with brown mustaches
and a fierce air. He looked at me frowningly, and when I showed my
papers, only said:

"Go and rejoin your company."

I started off, thinking that I would recognize some of the Fourth; but,
since Lutzen, companies had been so mingled with companies, regiments
with regiments, and divisions with divisions, that, on arriving at the
camp of the grenadiers, I knew no one. The men seeing me approach,
looked distrustfully at me, as if to say:

"Does _he_ want some of our beef? Let us see what he brings to the
pot!"

I was almost ashamed to ask for my company, when a bony veteran, with a
nose long and pointed like an eagle's beak, and a worn-out coat hanging
from his shoulders, lifting his head, and gazing at me, said quietly:

"Hold! It is Joseph. I thought he was buried four months ago."

Then I recognized my poor Zebede. My appearance seemed to affect him,
for, without rising, he squeezed my hand, crying:

"Klipfel! here is Joseph!"

Another soldier, seated near a pot, turned his head, saying:

"It is you, Joseph, is it? T