Chapter VII.

From midnight until six o'clock in the morning a flame shone through the darkness from the summit of Falkenstein.

All Hullin's friends, and those of Marc-Dives and Mother Lefevre, with high gaiters bound around their legs, and old muskets upon their shoulders, trooped in the silence of the woods to the gorges of the Valtin. The thought of the enemy pouring over the plains of Alsace to surprise their glens and defiles nerved every heart and arm. The tocsin at Dagsbourg, at Walsch, and at Saint-Quirin ceased not to call the country's defenders to arms.

Imagine the Jaegerthal, at the foot of the old _burg_, in the early morning hour, when the giant arms of the trees begin to break through the shadows, and when the approach of day softens somewhat the intense cold of the night. The snow lies deep upon the ground. {176} Imagine the old saw-pit with its flat roof, its heavy wheel glittering with icicles; a fire of sawdust shining from within, but paling before the morning twilight, and around the fire fur caps and slouched hats and dark faces crowded together; further on, in the woods, and along the winding valley, were other fires lighting up groups of men and women seated on the snow.

As the sky grew brighter friends began to recognize each other.

"Hold! There is Cousin Daniel of Soldatenthal. You here too?"

"As you see, Heinrich, and my wife too."

"What! Cousin Nanette! But where is she?"

"Yonder, by the large oak, at Uncle Hans's fire."

They clasp each other's hand. Some slept, some piled branches and broken planks upon the fires. Flasks passed around, and those who had warmed themselves made way for their shivering neighbors. But impatience was gaining upon the crowd.

"Ah!" cried one, "we have not come here only to stretch our legs. It is time to look around, to agree upon our movements."

"Yes! yes! let us organize and elect our leaders!" cried many.

"No; all are not yet here. They are yet coming from Dagsbourg and Saint-Quirin," replied others.

Indeed, as day advanced, the pathways of the mountain seemed full of people. There were already some hundreds in the valley--wood-cutters, charcoal-burners, and others--without counting the women and children.

Nothing could be more picturesque than that halt in the snow, at the bottom of a defile covered to the clouds with high firs; to the right, valley following valley as far as the eye could reach; to the left, the ruins of Falkenstein, reaching, as it seemed, to the sky; and before you groups of thickly bearded men with gloomy brows, broad square shoulders, and hands callous from labor. Some of them, taller than their fellows, were red-haired and white-skinned, and seemed strong as the oaks of the forest. Of this number were old Materne of Hengst and his two sons, Frantz and Kasper. These three, armed with short Innspruck rifles, their high gaiters of blue canvas with leather buttons reaching above the knee, their bodies covered with hare-skin jackets, and their slouched hats pushed far back upon their heads, did not deign to approach the fire. Since one o'clock they had sat upon the felled trunk of a fir by the border of the brook, their eyes constantly on the watch, and their feet buried in the snow. From time to time the old man would say to his sons:

"What are they shivering for yonder? I never saw a milder night at this season; it is a fine hunting night; the brooks are not yet frozen."

Every hunter as he passed pressed their hands, and then joined his fellows, who formed a separate band, among whom but few words passed, for silence is one of the great virtues of the chase.

Marc-Dives, standing in the middle of another group, over whom he towered by a head, talked and gesticulated, now pointing to one part of the mountain, now to another. Opposite him was the old herdsman Lagarmitte, in his gray smock-frock, his dog at his side. He was listening open-mouthed to the smuggler, and from time to time gravely nodded his head. The remainder of the group was composed of wood-cutters and workmen with whom Marc had daily dealings.

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Between the saw-pit and the first fire sat the shoemaker Jerome of Saint-Quirin, a man between fifty and sixty years of age; his eyes were sunken, his face long and brown, and his yellow beard descended to his waist; his head was covered with an otter-skin cap; and as he leaned forward upon a heavy knotted staff, in his long woollen great-coat, he might easily have been mistaken for some hermit of the wilds. Whenever any one approached with news, Father Jerome slowly turned his head and listened with bent brows.

Jean Labarbe sat motionless, his elbow resting upon his axe-helve. He was a pale man, with an aquiline nose and thin lips, and exercised a great influence over the men of Dagsbourg by the resolution and force of his character. When those around him cried out for action, he simply said, "Wait; Hullin has not arrived yet, nor Catherine Lefevre. There is no hurry," and all around became quiet.

Piorette, a little, dry, thin, energetic man, with eyebrows meeting over his nose, and a short pipe between his teeth, sat at the threshold of the saw-mill, and gazed with a quick but thoughtful eye at the scene.

Nevertheless, the impatience increased every minute. A few village mayors in cocked hats called upon their people to deliberate. Happily the wagon of Catherine Lefevre at last appeared, and a thousand enthusiastic shouts arose on all sides.

"Here they are! They have come!"

Old Materne stood up upon the trunk of a tree and then descended, gravely saying:

"It is they."

Much excitement now prevailed; the scattered groups collected. Scarcely could the old woman be seen distinctly, seated upon a truss of straw with Louise by her side, when the echoes rang with the cry:

"Long live France! Long live Mother Catherine!"

Hullin, behind, his musket strapped upon his back, was crossing the field of Eichmath, grasping hands and saluting his friends:

"Is it you, Daniel? Good-morning, Colon!"

"Ha! Things look stormy, Hullin."

"Yes, yes; we shall soon have lively times. You here, old Jerome! What think you of the state of affairs?"

"All will yet go well, Jean-Claude, with God's help."

Catherine, when she arrived in front of the saw-mill, ordered Labarbe to open the little cask of brandy she had brought from the farm-house. Hullin, approaching the fire, met Materne and his two sons.

"You come late," said the old hunter.

"True, but there was much to be done, and too much yet remains to be done to lose more time. Lagarmitte, wind your horn."

Lagarmitte blew until his cheeks seemed bursting, and the groups scattered along the path, and at the skirts of the wood hastened to assemble, and soon all were collected before the saw-mill. Hullin mounted a pile of logs, and spoke amid the deepest silence:

"The enemy," said he, "crossed the Rhine the night before last. He is pressing on to our mountains to enter Lorraine. Strasbourg and Huningue are blockaded. In three or four days at most the Germans and the Russians will be upon us."

A shout of "Long live France!" arose.

"Ay, long live France!" cried Jean-Claude; "for, if the allies reach Paris, all our liberties are gone! Forced labor, tithes, privileges, and gibbets will flourish once more. If you wish that they should, let the allies pass."

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A dark scowl seemed to settle on every man's face.

"I have said what I have to say!" cried Hullin, pale with emotion. "As you are here, you are here to fight!"

"Ay, to fight!"

"It is well; but one word more. I would not deceive you; I see among you fathers of families. We will be one against ten--against fifty. We must expect to perish! Therefore, let those whose hearts may grow faint ere the end comes, go. All are free!"

Each in the crowd looked round to see his neighbors' faces, but no one left his place. Jean-Claude spoke in a firmer tone:

"No one moves! All are ready for battle! A chief--a leader--must be named, for in times of danger everything depends on order and discipline. He whom you shall appoint must be obeyed in all things. Reflect well, for on him depends the fate of every one of us."

So saying, Jean-Claude descended from his tribune, and earnest voices began at once to whisper in the crowd. Every village deliberated separately; each mayor proposed his man; time passed; Catherine Lefevre burned with anxiety and impatience. At length she could contain herself no longer, and rising upon her seat she made a sign that she wished to speak.

"My friends," said she, "time flies; the enemy is advancing. What do we need? A man whom we can trust; a soldier acquainted with war, and knowing how to profit by the strength of mere positions. Well, why not choose Hullin? Can any among you name a better? I propose Hullin!"

"Hullin! Hullin!" cried Labarbe, Dives, Jerome, and many others. "Let us have a vote!"

Marc-Dives, climbing the pile of logs, shouted in a voice of thunder:

"Let those who are opposed to having Jean-Claude Hullin for our leader, raise their hands!"

Not a hand rose.

"Let those who wish Jean-Claude Hullin to be our chief, raise their hands!"

Every hand rose.

"Jean-Claude," said the smuggler, "you are the man. Come hither. Look!"

Jean-Claude mounted the logs, and seeing that he was elected, said calmly:

"You name me your chief. I accept. Let old Materne, Labarbe of Dagsbourg, Jerome of Saint-Quirin, Marc-Dives, Piorette the sawyer, and Catherine Lefevre enter the saw-mill. We will hold a council, and in twenty minutes I will give my orders. In the meantime let every village detail two men to go to Falkenstein with Marc-Dives for powder and ball."