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 rather，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 silhouettes among the marshes.
A glance capable of piercing all that mist deeply would have perceived at some distance a sort of little sutler's wagon with a fluted wicker hood，harnessed to a famished nag which was cropping the grass across its bit as it halted，hidden，as it were，behind the hovel which adjoins the highway to Nivelles，at the angle of the road from Mont-Saint-Jean to Braine l'Alleud；and in the wagon，a sort of woman seated on coffers and packages.Perhaps there was some connection between that wagon and that prowler.
The darkness was serene.
Not a cloud in the zenith.
What matters it if the earth be red！the moon remains white；these are the indifferences of the sky.
In the fields，branches of trees broken by grape-shot，but not fallen，upheld by their bark，swayed gently in the breeze of night.
A breath，almost a respiration，moved the shrubbery.Quivers which resembled the departure of souls ran through the grass.
In the distance the coming and going of patrols and the general rounds of the English camp were audible.
Hougomont and La Haie-Sainte continued to burn，forming，one in the west，the other in the east，two great flames which were joined by the cordon of bivouac fires of the English，like a necklace of rubies with two carbuncles at the extremities，as they extended in an immense semicircle over the hills along the horizon.
We have described the catastrophe of the road of Ohain.
The heart is terrified at the thought of what that death must have been to so many brave men.
If there is anything terrible，if there exists a reality which surpasses dreams，it is this：
to live，to see the sun；to be in full possession of virile force；to possess health and joy；to laugh valiantly；to rush towards a glory which one sees dazzling in front of one；to feel in one's breast lungs which breathe，a heart which beats，a will which reasons；to speak，think，hope，love；to have a mother，to have a wife，to have children；to have the light——and all at once，in the space of a shout，in less than a minute，to sink into an abyss；to fall，to roll，to crush，to be crushed；to see ears of wheat，flowers，leaves，branches；not to be able to catch hold of anything；to feel one's sword useless，men beneath one，horses on top of one；to struggle in vain，since one's bones have been broken by some kick in the darkness；to feel a heel which makes one's eyes start from their sockets；to bite horses'shoes in one's rage；to stifle，to yell，to writhe；to be beneath，and to say to one's self，'But just a little while ago I was a living man！'
There，where that lamentable disaster had uttered its death-rattle，all was silence now.
The edges of the hollow road were encumbered with horses and riders，inextricably heaped up.
Terrible entanglement！There was no longer any slope，for the corpses had levelled the road with the plain，and reached the brim like a well-filled bushel of barley.
A heap of dead bodies in the upper part，a river of blood in the lower part——such was that road on the evening of the 18th of June，1815.
The blood ran even to the Nivelles highway，and there overflowed in a large pool in front of the abatis of trees which barred the way，at a spot which is still pointed out.
It will be remembered that it was at the opposite point，in the direction of the Genappe road，that the destruction of the cuirassiers had taken place.
The thickness of the layer of bodies was proportioned to the depth of the hollow road.Towards the middle，at the point where it became level，where Delort's division had passed，the layer of corpses was thinner.
The nocturnal prowler whom we have just shown to the reader was going in that direction.
He was searching that vast tomb.He gazed about.
He passed the dead in some sort of hideous review.He walked with his feet in the blood.
All at once he paused.
A few paces in front of him，in the hollow road，at the point where the pile of dead came to an end，an open hand，illumined by the moon，projected from beneath that heap of men.
That hand had on its finger something sparkling，which was a ring of gold.
The man bent over，remained in a crouching attitude for a moment，and when he rose there was no longer a ring on the hand.
He did not precisely rise；he remained in a stooping and frightened attitude，with his back turned to the heap of dead，scanning the horizon on his knees，with the whole upper portion of his body supported on his two forefingers，which rested on the earth，and his head peering above the edge of the hollow road.The jackal's four paws suit some actions.
Then coming to a decision，he rose to his feet.
At that moment，he gave a terrible start.
He felt some one clutch him from behind.
