The silence was great outdoors. Eleven o'clock had struck from the village church. The good man was sitting down to take off his boots, when he caught sight of his musket suspended above the door: he took it down, wiped it, and drew the trigger. His whole soul was intent on the business in hand.
"It is all right," he murmured: and then in a grave tone: "It is curious.... The last time I held it ... at Marengo ... was fourteen years ago, and yet it seems like yesterday!"
Suddenly the hardened snow cracked under a quick footstep. He listened: "Someone!" At the same time two little sharp taps resounded on the panes. He ran to the window and opened it. The head of Marc Divès, with his broad hat stiff with the frost, bent forward from the darkness.
"Well, Marc, what news?"
"Hast thou warned the mountaineers—Materne, Jérome, Labarbe?"
"Yes, all."
"It was time: the enemy has passed."
"Passed?"
"Yes, along the whole line. I have walked fifteen leagues through the snow since this morning to announce it to thee."
"Good; the signal must be given: a great fire on the Falkenstein."