The sky had been overspread with clouds, which had rendered the night one of pitch blackness; but these dissolved. Whither they went was inexplicable—they were not rolled away by the wind, but appeared to evaporate, and let the stars shine through. Then, in the starlight, the valley below became visible, and the river gleamed up, reflecting the feeble light in the sky.
A low-lying fog formed in the valley of the Beune, and lay upon the spongy level, like a fall of sleet.
Jean made a sign; he was again thrust forward over the edge of the cliff, and remained for some minutes looking down and listening.
Then slowly, with upraised hand, he made the requisite signal. He was hastily drawn back.
"All is still," he said. "The fire is nearly out."
"Then the other fire shall be kindled!" said one of the men.
"Nicole!" said Jean. "A brand."
The man addressed went to the charcoal-burner's heap. A thrill ran through the throng. All rose to their feet; even the mutilated man on the mattress lifted himself to a sitting posture.
Silently the men moved between the faggots and the wall of loose stones they had raised, each armed with a stout pole.
Jean put a cow-horn to his mouth and blew a blast that rang into the night as the blast of Judgment. Instantly the rocks and stones were levered over the edge, and instantly the brand, spluttering and blazing, was put into the hand of Rossignol.