"You have no daughters," Petitot continued, a slight quaver in his tone. "You have no little children, you sleep well of nights, the fall of wood-ash does not rouse you, you do not listen when you awake. You do not——" he paused, the last barrier of reserve broken down, the tears standing openly in his eyes—"it is foolish perhaps—you do not yearn, Messer Blondel, to take all you love in your arms, and shelter them and cover them from the horrors that threaten us, the horrors that may fall on us—any night! You do not"—he looked at Baudichon and the stout man's face grew pale, he averted his eyes—"you do not dream of these things, Messer Blondel, nor awake to fancy them, but we do. We do!" he repeated in accents which went to the hearts of all, "day and night, rising and lying down, waking and sleeping. And we—dare run no risks."
In the silence which followed Blondel's fingers tapped restlessly on the table. He cleared his throat and voice.
"But there, I tell you there are no risks," he said. He was moved nevertheless.
Petitot bowed, humbly for him. "Very good," he said. "I do not say that you are not right. But——"
"And moment by moment I expect news. It might come at this minute, it might come at any minute," the Syndic continued. With a glance at the window he moved his chair, as if to shake off the spell that Petitot had cast over him. "Besides—you do not expect the town to be taken in an hour from now?"
"No."
"In broad daylight?"
Petitot shook his head, "God knows what I expect!" he murmured despondently.
"When the information we have points to a night attack?"
Fabri nodded. "That is true," he said.