The houses of the
prosperous villagers had had their doors and windows chopped out by
axe-blows. Within them soldiers were moving about methodically. They
entered empty-handed and came out loaded with furniture and clothing.
Others, in the upper stories, were flinging out various objects;
accompanying their trophies with jests and guffaws. Suddenly they had
to come out flying, for fire was breaking out with the violence and
rapidity of an explosion. Following their footsteps was a group of men
with big boxes and metal cylinders. 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.
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