CHAPTER XXI.

About ten o'clock in the evening, Catherine Lefevre and Louise, having wished Hullin good-night, went up into the room overhead. There were two large feather beds; and the tall bedsteads, nearly as high as the ceiling, with their long curtains, striped blue and red, had an extremely warm and comfortable appearance.

"Come," exclaimed the old farm-mistress, getting upon her chair, "come, sleep well, my child; for my part, I am quite worn out; I can keep up no longer."

She drew the bed-clothes over her, and in less than five minutes after she was sound asleep.

Louise, being also exhausted, was not long in following her example.

Now this had lasted about a couple of hours, when the old woman was awakened with a start by a fearful tumult. Everything was in an uproar.

"To arms!" was the cry--"to arms! Hi! this way, a thousand thunders! they are upon us!"

Five or six shots followed, illuminating the dark window-panes.

"To arms! to arms!"

The shots were heard again. People were hurrying to and fro. Then Hullin's voice was heard--sharp, penetrating, issuing orders. Then to the left of the farm, a good distance off, came a sound like a heavy prolonged crackling in the gorges of the Grosmann.

"Louise, Louise!" exclaimed Catherine, "did you hear that noise?"

"Yes. Oh! heavens! how terrible!"

Catherine jumped out of bed.

"Get up, my child," said she; "let us dress ourselves."

The shots were by this time redoubled, and kept passing like flashes of lightning across the window-panes.

"Attention!" shouted Materne.

With these sounds were mingled the neighing of a horse outside, and the trampling of a multitude of people in the alley, in the court-yard, and in front of the farm; the house seemed shaken to its very foundations.

All at once the firing was replied to from the windows of the room on the ground floor. The two women dressed themselves in haste. At this moment the staircase creaked under a heavy footstep; the door opened, and Hullin appeared with a lantern, pale, his hair in disorder, and every sign of agitation visible in his face.

"Make haste!" he exclaimed; "we have not a moment to lose."

"Why, what is happening?" asked Catherine anxiously.

The firing was evidently coming nearer and nearer.

"What?" exclaimed Jean-Claude, almost beside himself, and wildly tossing up his arms; "do you think I have time to explain things to you?"

The farm-mistress saw that there was nothing to do but obey orders. She took her hood, and descended the staircase with Louise. By the flickering light of the shots, Catherine saw Materne, bare-necked, and his son, Kasper, firing from the entrance of the valley on to the barricades, while ten others behind them kept loading and handing the guns to them, so that they had nothing to do but to take aim and fire. All this motley group, busily engaged in loading, shouldering, and firing, gave a terrible aspect to the scene. Three or four dead bodies, propped up against the old decayed wall, added to the horror of the combat; the smoke was beginning to make its way rapidly into the dwelling.

When they had reached the foot of the staircase, Hullin exclaimed: "Here they are, thanks be to God!" And all the brave fellows about there, looking up and seeing them, called out, "Courage! Mother Lefevre!"

Then the poor old dame, her frame quite shattered by so many emotions, began to cry. She leaned on the shoulder of Jean-Claude; but the latter passed his strong arm round her, and carried her off like a feather, running all along the wall to the right. Louise followed, crying and sobbing.

Out of doors nothing was to be heard but the whizzing of bullets through the air, heavy thuds against the wall; bricks and mortar were giving way, and tiles flying about in all directions, and exactly opposite, in the vicinity of the barricades, three hundred paces off, were to be seen the white uniforms, in line, lit up by their own fire in the thick darkness of night, and then to their left, on the other side of the ravine of the Minieres, the mountaineers, who were taking them in the flank.

Hullin disappeared at the turning by the farm; there all was plunged in darkness. It was as much as you could do to catch a glimpse of Doctor Lorquin on horseback in front of a sleigh, a long cavalry sword in his hand, two holster-pistols in his belt, and Frantz Materne, with a dozen of men, with grounded arms, trembling with rage. Hullin placed Catherine in the sledge, on a truss of straw, and then Louise beside her.

"There you are!" exclaimed the doctor, "and it's a very lucky thing!"

And Frantz Materne added: "If it had not been for you, Dame Lefevre, you may easily believe that not one of us would quit this spot to-night; but when you are in the case, there is nothing to say."

"No," cried the others; "there is nothing to say."

At the same moment, a great tall, long-backed fellow, with legs as long as a heron's, came from behind the wall, running at full speed, and shouting: "The enemy! Fly! save yourselves!"

Hullin turned as pale as death.

"It is the great grinder of the Harberg," said he, gnashing his teeth.

Frantz said not a word; he shouldered his carbine, took aim, and fired.

Louise saw the grinder, thirty paces off in the shadow, stretch out his two long arms, and fall, face downwards, to the ground.

Frantz re-loaded his gun, smiling with a strange expression.

Hullin said: "Comrades, here is our mother; she who has given us powder, and supplied us with food for the defence of our country, and here is my child save them!"

They all replied, with one voice: "We will save them, or perish with them."

"And do not forget to tell Dives that he is to remain at the Falkenstein till further orders."

"All right, Master Jean-Claude."

"Then forward, doctor, forward!" cried the brave man.

"And you, Hullin?" said Catherine.

"For me, my place is here; we shall have to defend our position to the death!"

"Papa Jean-Claude!" cried Louise, stretching out her arms to him.

But he had already turned the corner; the doctor struck his horse, the sleigh sped over the snow, and behind followed Frantz Materne and his men, carbine on shoulder, while the firing still continued all round the farm. This is what Catherine Lefevre and Louise beheld in the space of a few minutes. Something strange and terrible had doubtless happened during the night. The old farm-mistress, recollecting her dream, grew silent and absorbed. Louise dried her tears, and threw a long look on the hillside she was leaving, and which was all alight, as if on fire. The horse, urged by the doctor, went at full speed; the mountaineers who formed the escort could hardly keep up with him. For a long time still the tumult, the sounds of the combat, the explosions, the hissing of bullets whistling through the trees, continued to be heard; but all this, by degrees, grew less and less, and in a short time, at the descent of the path, all had disappeared as in a dream.

The sledge had just reached the other acclivity of the mountain, and was speeding like an arrow through the darkness of the night. The gallop of the horse, the hurried breathing of the escort, the occasional cry of the doctor, "Up, Bruno! come up, then!" alone disturbed the silence.

A strong gust of cold air coming up from the valleys of the Sarre, brought from a distance, like a sigh, the ceaseless sounds of the torrents and the woods. The moon, just emerging from behind the cloud, shed her pale light over the gloomy forests of the Blanru with their tall fir-trees loaded with snow.

Ten minutes after, the sledge reached the corner of these woods, and Doctor Lorquin, turning round on his saddle, called out:

"Now, Frantz, what shall we do? This is the path which leads towards the hills of St. Quirin, and this other leads down to the Blanru; which shall we take?"

Frantz and his escort had come up with them. As they found themselves then on the eastern declivity of the Donon, they began to see again, on the other side, high in air, the firing of the Germans who came by the Grosmann.

They saw nothing but the flashes, and a few instants after the reports awoke the echoes of the abyss.

"The path by the hills of St. Quirin," said Frantz, "is the shortest way to the farm of Bois-des-Chenes; we shall gain at least three-quarters of an hour."

"Yes," cried the doctor; "but we risk being stopped by the _kaiserlicks_, who now hold the pass of the Sarre. See, they are already masters of the heights; they have, no doubt, sent detachments on to Sarre-Rouge to secure the passage of the Donon."

"Let us take the path by the Blanru," said Frantz; "it is longer, but it is safer."

The sleigh descended the path, to the left through the woods. The volunteers marched one behind the other, gun in hand, on the rising ground, while the doctor on horseback in the road beneath made his way through the untrodden snow that lay thick upon the ground. Above hung the branches of the dark fir-trees overshadowing the gloomy pathway, while all around the moon was shining brightly. As they proceeded thus for about a quarter of an hour, in silence, Catherine, after having held her tongue for a long while, not being able to contain herself any longer, exclaimed:

"Doctor Lorquin, now that you have got us into the pass of the Blanru, and can do what you like with us, perhaps you will be good enough to explain why we have been taken away by force? Jean-Claude came and caught me up in his arms, and tossed me on to this truss of straw, and here I am!"

"Houp, Bruno!" said the doctor.

Then he gravely replied:--"To-night, Dame Catherine, the worst of misfortunes has befallen us. You must not be angry with Jean-Claude, for through the fault of another, we lose the fruit of all our sacrifices."

"By whose fault?"

"Of that unlucky Labarbe, who has not held the pass of the Blutfeld. He has since died doing his duty; but that does not repair the disaster, and if Piorette does not come in time to the support of Hullin, all is lost! We must yield our posts, and beat a retreat."

"What! Blutfeld is taken?"

"Yes, Dame Catherine; who the deuce would have ever thought that the Germans could approach that way? A defile almost impracticable for foot passengers, hemmed in as it is between perpendicular rocks, where the shepherds themselves can hardly descend with their flocks of goats. Well, they passed through there, two by two; surprised Roche-Creuse; they killed Labarbe, and then fell upon Jerome, who defended himself like a lion until nine o'clock in the evening; but, at the last, he was obliged to fly into the fir forest, and leave the passage free to the _kaiserlicks_. That is the whole of the story. It is fearful. There must have been in the country some man cowardly enough, vile enough, to guide the enemy to our rear, and deliver us up, bound hand and foot. Oh! the wretch!" exclaimed Lorquin, his voice quivering with rage. "I am not naturally cruel; but if he should fall into my clutches, I would tear him to pieces! Houp, Bruno! come up!"

The volunteers still continued their way along the rising ground, silently, like shadows.

The sleigh again set off at full gallop, then, after a while, relaxed its speed; the horse was panting for breath.

The old farm-mistress continued silent, to arrange these fresh ideas in her head.

"I begin to understand," said she, after a few moments; "we have been attacked to-night in front and on the side."

"Exactly so, Catherine; fortunately, ten minutes before the attack, one of Marc Dives' men--a smuggler, Zimmer, the ex-dragoon--came in breathless haste to put us on our guard. But for that, we should have been lost. He came up with our vanguard, after having ran the gauntlet of a whole regiment of Cossacks on the side of the Grosmann. The poor devil had received a terrible sword-thrust; his bowels were hanging over his saddle; were they not, Frantz?"

"Yes," gloomily replied the young huntsman.

"And what did he say?" asked the old farm-mistress.

"He had only time to cry, 'To arms! we are surprised. Jerome has sent me. Labarbe is dead. The Germans have forced the Blutfeld.'"

"He was a brave man," said Catherine.

"Yes, he was a brave man!" replied Frantz, despondingly.

Then all became silent again, and for a long time the sleigh continued to wend its way along the winding valley.

At times it was obliged to stop, the snow was so deep; three or four mountaineers then got down to lead the horse by the bridle, and they thus continued on their way.

"But, for all that," rejoined Catherine, suddenly rousing herself from her reverie, "Hullin might just as well have told me."

"But if he had told you of those two attacks," interrupted the doctor, "you would have wanted to stay behind."

"And who could have prevented my doing what I wish? If I pleased now to alight at this moment from the sleigh and go back, should I not be free to do so I have forgiven Jean-Claude, and I am sorry that I did so."

"Oh! Mother Lefevre, if he should happen to be killed while you were saying that?" murmured Louise.

"The child is right," thought Catherine; and then quickly added: "I say that I am sorry for it; but he is such a brave and worthy man that you cannot be angry with him. I forgive him with all my heart; in his place I should have acted like him."

Two or three hundred paces further on, they entered the defile of the Roches. The snow had ceased to fall; the moon was shining brightly between two large black and white clouds. The narrow gorge, shut in by steep rocks, lay stretched in the distance, and on the mountain sides, tall fir-trees lifted their lofty tops to the skies. Nothing disturbed the deep silence of the woods; you might have thought yourself far away from any human agitation. The silence was so profound that not only was every one of the horse's steps distinctly heard on the snow, but at times even his heavy breathing. Frantz Materne would sometimes stop, and cast a hasty, anxious glance around, then step out quickly again to overtake the others.

And valleys succeeded to valleys. The sleigh ascended, descended, turned to the right, then to the left, while the mountaineers, with the glitter of their steel bayonets just visible in the greyish dawn, as perseveringly followed it.

They had just reached thus, about four o'clock in the morning, the meadow of the Brimbelles, where there may be seen in our own day a large oak just at the turn of the valley. On the other side, on the left, in the midst of trees and shrubs all white with snow, behind its little stone wall, and the palings of its little garden, the old house of the keeper Cuny was just beginning to be visible, with its three beehives safely fixed on a plank, its old knotty vine creeping to the very top of its shelving roof, and its little branch of fir suspended outside in form of a sign, for Cuny carried on also the trade of publican in this solitary place.