Ever since his departure from Sainte-Roure, he had retained that vacant stare.

Along the high road, for many a league, whenever the soldiers urged on the march of their captives with the butt-ends of their rifles, he had shown himself as gentle as a child.

Covered with dust, thirsty and weary, he trudged onward without saying a word, like one of those docile animals that herdsmen drive along.

He was thinking of Miette.

He ever saw her lying on the banner, under the trees with her eyes turned upwards.