Her father had been gone an hour and a half. He must have reached the town by now. She conjured up a vision of him telling the story to Monsieur Lavigne, who grew pale with emotion, and rang for his servant to bring him his arms and uniform. She fancied she could bear the drum as it sounded the call to arms. Frightened faces appeared at the windows. The citizen-soldiers emerged from their houses half dressed, out of breath, buckling on their belts, and hurrying to the commandant's house.
Then the troop of soldiers, with Long-legs at its head, set forth through the night and the snow toward the forest.
She looked at the clock. “They may be here in an hour.”
A nervous impatience possessed her. The minutes seemed interminable. Would the time never come?
At last the clock marked the moment she had fixed on for their arrival. And she opened the door to listen for their approach. She perceived a shadowy form creeping toward the house. She was afraid, and cried out. But it was her father.
“They have sent me,” he said, “to see if there is any change in the state of affairs.”
“No-none.”
Then he gave a shrill whistle. Soon a dark mass loomed up under the trees; the advance guard, composed of ten men.
“Don't go in front of the vent-hole!” repeated Long-legs at intervals.
And the first arrivals pointed out the much-dreaded vent-hole to those who came after.