"Aha!" he muttered at last, "things are not going well. The enemy is expected."
Then his warrior instincts rising, his brown cheeks flushed with anger.
"It is those rascal Austrians, and Prussians, and Russians, who have caused all this," he cried, shaking his staff; "but let them beware! They shall rue it!"
His wrath grew as he advanced. Twenty minutes later he entered the city at the end of a long train of wagons, each drawn by five or six horses, and dragging enormous trunks of trees, destined to form a block-house on the Place d'Armes. Between drivers, peasants, and neighing, struggling, kicking horses, a mounted gendarme, Father Kels, rode grimly, seeming to hear nothing of the tumult around, but ever and anon saying, in a deep base voice:
"Courage! my friends, courage! We can make two journeys more before night, and you will have deserved well of your country."
Jean-Claude crossed the bridge.
A new spectacle presented itself within the walls. All were absorbed in the work of defence. Every gate was open. Men, women, and children labored, ran, or helped to carry powder and shot. Occasionally, groups of three, four, or half a dozen would collect to hear the news.
"Neighbors," one would say, "a courier has arrived at full speed. He entered by the French gate."
"Then he announces the coming of the National Guard from Nancy."
"Or, perhaps, a train from Metz."