Someone at their head was pointing out the buildings into whose broken windows were to be thrown the lozenges and liquid streams which would produce catastrophe with lightning rapidity.
Out of one of these flaming buildings two men, who seemed but bundles of rags, were being dragged by some Germans.

Above the blue sleeves of their military cloaks Don Marcelo could distinguish blanched faces and eyes immeasurably distended with suffering.

Their legs were dragging on the ground, sticking out between the tatters of their red pantaloons.
One of them still had on his kepis.

Blood was gushing from different parts of their bodies and behind them, like white serpents, were trailing their loosened bandages.

They were wounded Frenchmen, stragglers who had remained in the village because too weak to keep up with the retreat.