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When he recognized Jean he murmured: "Ah, is it you, corporal? Where are your men?" Jean, by a gesture expressive in its vagueness, intimated that he did not know, but Pache, pointing to Lapoulle, answered with tears in his eyes: "Here we are; there are none left but us two. The merciful Lord have pity on our sufferings; it is too hard!"
He would have been willing to give his blood for a pound of bread. As it was beginning to be dark Pache stealthily made his way to the Tour a Glaire and slipped into the park, while the three others cautiously followed him at a distance. "It won't do to let him suspect anything," said Chouteau. "Be on your guard in case he should look around."
His great eyes, dilated wide and filled with melancholy and affright, were fixed upon the wan-visaged men who stood waiting for him to die; then they grew dim and the light died from out them. "Merciful God," muttered Pache, still on his knees, "keep him in thy holy protection succor him, Lord, and grant him eternal rest."
He could not tell why, until Jonas remarked to him, "If you hadn't pulled straight, your plunder'd be in the 'Pache camp 'bout now, scalp and all. It was jest a question of grit and shootin'. I'm powerful glad you made out to throw yer lead to the right spot." So was Sile, but it was not easy, somehow, for him to make up his mind that he had really killed anybody.
Chouteau had discovered three large beets, that had somehow been overlooked by previous visitors to the field, and carried them off with him. Loubet had loaded the meat on Lapoulle's shoulders so as to have his own arms free, while Pache carried the kettle that belonged to the squad, which they had brought with them on the chance of finding something to cook in it.
"For shame! what wicked people they must be!" "Yes, sold, as Judas sold his master," murmured Pache, mindful of his studies in sacred history. It was Chouteau's hour of triumph. "Mon Dieu! it is as plain as the nose on your face. MacMahon got three millions and each of the other generals got a million, as the price of bringing us up here.
Comanches, now, an’ Cheyenne an’ Kiowa an’ Sioux ride out to storm at you—guns an’ arrows all shootin’—wantin’ to count coup on a man by hittin’ him personal. But th’ ’Pache ain’t wastin’ hisself that way. Nope—git behind a rock an’ ambush ... put th’ whole hell-fired country t’ work fur them.
Goebel's friend, Pache, a native of Freiburg, a creature abject as himself, was particularly zealous, as was also Proli, a natural son of the Austrian minister, Kaunitz. Prince Charles of Hesse, known among the Jacobins as Charles Hesse, fortunately escaped. Schlaberndorf, a Silesian count, who appears to have been a mere spectator, and Oelsner, a distinguished author, were equally fortunate.
He bade Pache go for the water, no very hard task, as the river was but a few yards away, and Loubet, having in the meantime dug a shallow trench and lit his fire, was enabled to commence operations on his pot-au-feu, which he did by putting on the big kettle full of water and plunging into it the meat that he had previously corded together with a bit of twine, secundum artem.
Name o' God!" grunted Lapoulle as he contentedly munched the dry bread; it was all he could find to say; while Pache repeated a Pater and an Ave under his breath to make sure that Heaven should not forget to send him his breakfast in the morning.
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