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and nothing parches tire mouth so much as biting cartridges. They asked
for drink. Three pitchers of water were brought to them.
A sort of security suddenly fell upon them. Amongst them were several
who had been transported in June, 1848, and who had already been in that
cellar, and who said, "In June they were not so humane. They left us for
three days without food or drink." Some of them wrapped themselves up in
their overcoats or cloaks, lay down, and slept. At one o'clock in the
morning a great noise was heard outside. Soldiers, carrying torches,
appeared in the cellars, the prisoners who were sleeping woke with a
start, an officer ordered them to get up.
They made them go out anyhow as they had come in. As they went out they
coupled them two by two at random, and a sergeant counted them in a loud
voice. They asked neither their names, nor their professions, nor their
families, nor who they were, nor whence they came; they contented
themselves with the numbers. The numbers sufficed for what they were
about to do.
In this manner they counted 337. The counting having come to an end,
they ranged them in close columns, still two by two and arm-in-arm. They
were not tied together, but on each side of the column, on the right and
on the left, there were three files of soldiers keeping them within
their ranks, with guns loaded; a battalion was at their head, a
battalion in their rear. They began to march, pressed together and
enclosed in this moving frame of bayonets.
At the moment when the column set forward, a young law-student, a fair
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