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and we do him the justice to mention it.
Nevertheless, on the night from the 18th to the 19th of
June, the dead were robbed. Wellington was rigid; he gave
orders that any one caught in the act should be shot; but
rapine is tenacious. The marauders stole in one corner of the
battlefield while others were being shot in another.
The moon was sinister over this plain.
Towards midnight, a man was prowling about, or rath-
er, climbing in the direction of the hollow road of Ohain.
To all appearance he was one of those whom we have just
described,—neither English nor French, neither peasant
nor soldier, less a man than a ghoul attracted by the scent
of the dead bodies having theft for his victory, and come to
rifle Waterloo. He was clad in a blouse that was something
like a great coat; he was uneasy and audacious; he walked
forwards and gazed behind him. Who was this man? The
night probably knew more of him than the day. He had
no sack, but evidently he had large pockets under his coat.
From time to time he halted, scrutinized the plain around
him as though to see whether he were observed, bent over
abruptly, disturbed something silent and motionless on the
ground, then rose and fled. His sliding motion, his attitudes,
his mysterious and rapid gestures, caused him to resemble
those twilight larvae which haunt ruins, and which ancient
Norman legends call the Alleurs.
Certain nocturnal wading birds produce these silhou-
ettes among the marshes.
A glance capable of piercing all that mist deeply would
have perceived at some distance a sort of little sutler’s wag-