Hundreds of mutilated, freshly bleeding bodies, which two hours before
were full of hopes and of different desires, sublime or humble, lay
with stiffened limbs in the flowery and dew-bathed valley which
separated the bastion from the intrenchment, or on the smooth floor of
the little mortuary chapel of Sebastopol. The dry lips of all of these
men murmured prayers, curses, or groans. They crawled, they turned on
their sides, some were abandoned among the corpses of the blossom-strewn
valley, others lay on stretchers, on cots, and on the damp floor of the
field-hospital. Notwithstanding all this, the heavens shed their morning
light over Mount Saponné as on the preceding days, the sparkling stars
grew pale, a white mist rose from the sombre and plaintively swelling
sea, the east grew purple with the dawn, and long, flame-colored clouds
stretched along the blue horizon. As on the days before, the grand torch
mounted slowly, powerful and proud, promising joy, love, and happiness
to the awakened world.