"Shall we fire again, monsieur?" asked Pierre within.
"No," was the answer. "Remember we've only got eight shots and we must wait."
"Let us have lights," cried the commander of the squadron. "Here, take one of those wagons and——"
In a few moments a bright fire was blazing in the courtyard.
"The shots came from those windows," continued the Russian. "Keep out of the way and—— Isn't that a window open up there?"
"It is, it is!" came the answer from a dozen throats.
All the talk being in Russian was, of course, not understood by the two Frenchmen.
"One of you climb up there," continued the Russian. "You see the spout, and the coping, that buttress? Ten roubles to the man who does it."
A soldier sprang forward. Those within could hear his heavy body rub along the wall. They did not know what he was doing or what was toward. They were in entire ignorance that a shutter had become detached from its hinges in the room above the drawing-room and that they would soon have to face an attack from the rear. The man who climbed fancied himself perfectly secure, and indeed he was from those within. It was a hard climb, but presently he reached the window-ledge. His hands clasped it, he made a brave effort, drew himself up and on the instant from beyond the wagons came a pistol shot. The man shrieked, released his hold and fell crashing to the ground. The besiegers broke into wild outcries. Some of them ran in the direction whence the shot had come. They thought they caught the glimpse of a figure running away in the darkness. Pistols were fired and the vicinity was thoroughly searched, but they found nothing.
The shot, the man's cry overhead, the body crashing down to the ground, enlightened Marteau. He handed Pierre two of the six remaining pistols, told him to run to the floor above and watch the window. The young peasant crossed himself and turned away. He found the room easily enough. It was impossible to barricade the window, but he drew back in the darkness and waited.