Chapter XVII.

At the end of a dark passage through the house was the farmyard, to which five or six well-worn steps descended. To the left were the barn and the press; and to the right, the stables and the dove-cote, the dark shape of the last standing sharply outlined against the gray, misty sky. Opposite the door was the wash-house.

Not a sound was heard. Hullin, after the wild and stormy day, was impressed with the deep silence. He gazed at the tufts of straw hanging between the rafters of the barn, the harrows, the ploughs, the carts, half hidden in the gloom of the sheds, with an indefinable feeling of calmness and satisfaction. Fowl were roosting along the wall, and a cat fled by like a flash, and disappeared in the cellar. Hullin seemed waking from a dream.

After a few moments of silent reverie, he turned slowly toward the wash-house, the three windows of which shone through the darkness. The kitchen of the farm-house was not large enough to prepare food for three or four hundred men, and the work had been carried thither.

Master Jean-Claude heard the childish voice of Louise giving orders in a tone so resolute that it astonished him.

"Come, come, Katel, hurry. It is nearly time for supper, and the poor fellows must be hungry. Just to think--fighting since seven this morning, and not eating a morsel! Here, Lessele, move yourself. Salt! pepper!"

Jean-Claude's heart beat at that voice. He could not avoid peering through the glass before entering. The kitchen was large but low, and with white-washed walls. A huge fire of beech-logs crackled and blazed upon the hearth, in the midst of which appeared the black sides of an immense pot. The chimney, high and narrow, was scarcely large enough to carry off the billows of smoke that arose. Near the fire was the graceful figure of Louise, lit up by the brightest tints that flashed from the hearth, bustling, active, coming, going, tasting sauces, trying the meat, approving, and criticising.

The two daughters of the Anabaptist, one tall, dried up, and pale, with large, flat feet, cased in great shoes, hair bound with black ribbons into a little knot, and a long gown of blue stuff hanging down to her heels; the other, chubby, and waddling along much like a goose, formed a strange contrast with her.

The good Anabaptist himself, seated at the end of the room upon a wooden chair, with feet crossed, cotton cap pulled well down upon his head, and hands plunged into the depths of the pockets of his blouse, gazed on all that passed with an air of wonderment, and from time to time ejaculated sententiously:

"Lessele, Katel, do as you are told, my children. Let this be for your instruction; you have yet seen nothing of the world. Walk quicker."

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"Yes, yes, you must move," added Louise. "What would become of us if we meditated days and weeks about putting a little seasoning in a sauce? You, Lessele, are the tallest; unhook that bundle of onions from the ceiling."

And the tall girl obeyed.

Hullin was proud and happy as a prince.

"How she makes them mind!" he chuckled. "What a little dragoon she is! a very puss-in-boots! Ha, ha, ha!"

And he waited full five minutes before entering."

Louise flung down the spoon she held, and rushed to him, crying:

"Father Jean-Claude! papa Jean-Claude! You are not hurt? you are not wounded?"

Poor Hullin could not speak for a moment. He folded her tenderly in his arms, and at length replied, in a voice whose tremor he could not repress:

"No, Louise, no; I am well and happy."

" Sit down, Jean-Claude," said the Anabaptist, seeing how his emotion affected him. "Here, take my chair."

Hullin seated himself, and Louise, placing her hands upon his shoulders, burst into tears.

"What is the matter, my child?" asked the old man in wonder. "A moment ago you were brave enough."

"Yes, I made believe, but I was very frightened. I thought--I thought, 'Why does he not come?'"

Then a sudden whim seemed to enter her little head; she seized her father's hand, and cried, laughing through her tears:

"Let us dance, papa Jean-Claude! Come, dance!"

And she pulled him around the room.

Hullin, smiling in spite of himself, turned to the Anabaptist, who saw all that passed without a change in his grave visage, and said:

"We are somewhat foolish, Louise and I; but don't let that astonish you, Pelsly."

"It does not, Master Hullin. Did not King David dance when he had smitten the Philistines hip and thigh?"

Jean-Claude, rather astounded at his resemblance to King David, made no reply.

"Well, Louise," said he, "you were frightened during the battle, were you?"

"Yes, at first; the cannon-shots and the din were fearful! But afterward I only thought of you and mother Lefevre."

Then she took him by the hand, and, leading him to a regiment of pots, kettles, and pans, ranged around the fire, enumerated her forces with the air of a conqueror:

"Here is the beef; here is General Jean-Claude's supper; and here is broth for the wounded. But that is not all. Here is our bread," she added, showing him a long pile of loaves on the table, and she was dragging him to the oven, when Catherine Lefevre entered.

"It is time to set the table," cried the old woman. "Everybody is waiting. Come, Katel, spread the cloth."

The stout girl departed, running; all followed to the great hall, where Doctors Lorquin and Despois, Marc-Dives, and Materne and his two sons, impatiently awaited the meal.

"How are the wounded, doctor?" cried Hullin.

"Rest easy, Master Jean-Claude; all are cared for. You have given us a hard day's work; but the weather is favorable, and fever or mortification need not be feared. Everything looks well."

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Katel, Lessele, and Louise soon entered, bearing an enormous soup-dish, and two magnificent rounds of beef, which they placed upon the table. Sharp appetites left scant room for ceremony, and soon the rattling of knives and opening of bottles alone were heard. Without, the broad flames from the bivouac-fires flashed on the window-panes, and showed the mountaineers doing full justice to Louise's cheer.

At nine o'clock Marc-Dives started for Falkenstein with his prisoners. At ten, all in the house, or around the fires, were sleeping, and no sound broke the stillness save the passage of the rounds and the challenge of the sentries.

So ended the first day in which the mountaineers proved that the spirit of their fathers had not degenerated in them.

But other and not less stern trials were soon to follow those already past; for throughout man's life one obstacle is overcome only to make way for another. The world is like a stormy sea: wave follows wave, from age to age, in a flow that eternity alone may stay.