He could not even distinguish the soldiers now; smoke, resembling strips of grey muslin, was floating under the elms.

The leaves still rained upon the insurgents, for the troops were firing too high.

Every now and then, athwart the fierce crackling of the fusillade, the young man heard a sigh or a low rattle, and a rush was made among the band as if to make room for some poor wretch clutching hold of his neighbours as he fell.
The firing lasted ten minutes.
Then, between two volleys some one exclaimed in a voice of terror: "Every man for himself! _Sauve qui peut!_" This roused shouts and murmurs of rage, as if to say, "The cowards! Oh! the cowards!" sinister rumours were spreading--the general had fled; cavalry were sabring the skirmishers in the Nores plain.

However, the irregular firing did not cease, every now and again sudden bursts of flame sped through the clouds of smoke.

A gruff voice, the voice of terror, shouted yet louder: "Every man for himself! _Sauve qui peut!_" Some men took to flight, throwing down their weapons and leaping over the dead.