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time to see the five officers spring to their
saddles and gallop down the village street.
They stood still and listened.
The storm came thundering along, nearer
and nearer, gradually growing into a rhythmic
roar like angry waves breaking against the
rocks. Suddenly the night resounded with
the furious beating of thousands of horses’
hoofs against the hard pavement of the
chaussée!
“Cavalry! Cavalry!” cried the Curé,
lifting his hands to heaven.
The Mayor in his tricolour scarf, with the
Curé at his side, stood in front of the church.
“Vive la France!” he called out, as line
after line of stalwart cuirassiers galloped
past ventre à terre, their steel breastplates
glistening in the dark and their black
crinières floating in the wind.
“Vive la France!” the men joyously called
back, leaning forward on their foaming
horses.
“Yes! Vive la France!”
* *
The Doctor went back into the church.
“No, nobody has stirred,” said the nun,
“they are all just the same; they don’t seem
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