've got
another one up here, and we're moving to it." And without taking his
hands out of his pockets or his pipe out of his mouth, he strolled on
across the open square, followed by his wife, who seemed absorbed
only in hushing the baby as it wailed in fright at the sound of the
bursting shells.

The French line was soon thrown back, and we filled our wagons
with wounded and started for the city, the shells still falling
unpleasantly thick and near. One of them struck right under our
coffee-pot, and, exploding, sent it in a hundred directions. The
horses which drew it did not happen to be hit, but they took fright
and dashed off, wrecking what was left of the coffee-pot wagon. We got
back to town as fast as we knew how that day. We tried to go out
again at night, but could make no headway against the crowd of wagons,
artillery and the retreating army on the roads. It was an utterly
demoralized mob. We barely escaped massacre by a regiment of
Belleville National Guards, who were mad, raving mad, accusing
everybody of incapacity and treason. The next day we went out with a
burying-party, and found members of this same National Guard thickly
strewn among the vines of Buzenval and Montretout, and we buried them.
In their new knap-sacks we found crested note-paper and many such
things, showing their owners' rank and want of military experience at
the same time. Some of these articles were stained with blood. We saw
out there the young lady who was soon to have married Henri Regnauit.
She was looking for his body among the dead, and found it during the
day. Young Regnault, it is claimed, was introducing a new school in
French painting. He had made some remarkable studies in Algiers, one
of the results of which was the well-known picture of Salome in the
Salon of 1870. I have said we saw his betrothed searching for his body
among the dead; and the memory of that sweet, brave girl in that awful
scene has lent a pathos to the story of his life and death which I do
not get out of the writers and painters who have since dwelt so much
and so lovingly upon the subject.

George McFarland of New York and two other fellows got lost from our
wagons the night before, when we left the field. They took refuge in
a tomb, where half a dozen poor wounded had crawled before them. They
remained there for three long hours, hearing the shells burst around
them from a tremendous cross-fire of the Germans. These three fellows,
by the by, were t