That night, which was on a Friday, the anabaptist's little farm-house never ceased for an instant to be filled with people coming in and going out.
Hullin had established his head-quarters in the large room on the ground floor, to the right of the barn, facing Framont: on the other side of the passage was the ambulance: the upper part was inhabited by the farm people.
Although the night was very still and the stars were shining in myriads, the cold was so intense that there was nearly an inch of ice on the panes.
Outside, one could hear the challenge of the sentinel, the passing of the patrols, and, on the surrounding peaks, the howling of the wolves, who followed our armies in hundreds since 1812. These wild beasts crouched on the ice, their sharp muzzles between their paws, with hunger at their entrails, calling each other, from the Grosmann to the Donon, with moaning sounds like that of the north wind.
It made more than one mountaineer grow pale.
"It is Death who calls," thought they; "he scents the battle, he summons us!"
The oxen lowed in the stables, and the horses gave frightful neighs.
About thirty fires blazed on the plateau; all the anabaptist's wood was taken; fagots were heaped one upon another. Their faces were scorched, and their backs frozen; they warmed their backs, and the ice hung from their mustaches.
Hullin, alone, before the great pinewood table, was taking thought for all. According to the latest tidings of the evening, announcing the arrival of the Cossacks at Framont, he was convinced that the first attack would take place the next day. He had distributed cartridges, doubled the sentries, appointed patrols, and marked all the posts along the outworks. Every one knew beforehand what place he was to occupy.
Hullin had also sent orders to Piorette, Jérome of St. Quirin, and Labarbe, to send him their best marksmen.