The old hunter's voice became hoarser and more trembling still:—"Then we are all three united once more," said he, in a low tone.
And he, whom none would have thought to be so tender, embraced his sons warmly. They could hear his chest heaving with suppressed sobs. They were both much moved, and said to each other,—"We never dreamed that he loved us so much!"
But the old man, soon recovering from his emotion, called out, "It was a hard day, though, my boys. Let us have something to drink, for I am thirsty."
Then, casting one last look on the dark slopes, and seeing that Hullin had placed sentinels at short distances apart, they proceeded toward the farmhouse.
As they were picking their way carefully through the trenches, encumbered with the dead, they heard a stifled voice, which said to them, "Is it thou, Materne?"
"Ah! forgive me, my poor old Rochart," replied the hunter, bending over him, "if I touched thee. What, art thou still here?"
"Yes, I cannot get away, for I have no longer any legs to carry me."
They remained silent for a moment, when the old wood-cutter continued,—"Thou wilt tell my wife that in a bag behind the closet, there are five pieces of six. I have saved them up, in case we either of us fell ill. I no longer need them."
"That is to say—that is to say—But thou mayst recover still, my poor old fellow. We will carry thee away."
"No; it is not worth the trouble: I cannot last more than an hour. It would only make me linger."