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At that instant Petit Picpon's keen, pale, Parisian face peered through the door; his great, black eyes, that at times had so pathetic a melancholy, and at others such a monkeyish mirth and malice, were sparkling excitedly and gleefully. "Mon Caporal!" "You, Picpon! What is it?" "Mon, Caporal, there is great news. There is fighting broken out yonder." "Ah! Are you sure?" "Sure, mon Caporal.
Like theirs, also, it had beauty in its blindness the beauty that lies in every pure unselfishness. Meanwhile, Picpon's news was correct. The regiments were ordered out on the march. There was fresh war in the interior; and wherever there was the hottest slaughter, there the Black Hawk always flew down with his falcon-flock.
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