"Affects your sight!" cried Kasper. "Not a man from the Vosges to Switzerland can place a ball at two hundred yards as true as you."
The old forester knew it well, but he did not wish to discourage the others.
"Well, well," he replied, "we have no time to dispute about it. The enemy is coming. Let every man do his duty."
Despite these words, so calm and simple, Materne too was sorely troubled. As he entered the trench, the air seemed full of sounds of dire foreboding, the rattling of arms, the steady tramp of a trained multitude. He looked down the steep and saw the Austrians pressing on, but this time with long ladders, to the ends of which great iron hooks were fastened.
"Kasper," he whispered, "things look ill—ill indeed. Give me your hand. I would like to have you and Frantz near me! Remember to do your part like a man."
As he spoke, a heavy shock shook the defences to their foundations, and a hoarse voice cried, "O my God!"
Then a fir-tree, a hundred paces off, bent slowly and thundered into the abyss. It was the first cannon-shot, and it had carried off both old Rochart's legs. Another and another followed, and soon the air was thick with crushed and flying ice, while the shrieking of the balls struck terror to the stoutest hearts. Even old Materne trembled for a moment; but his brave heart was soon itself again, and he cried:
"Vengeance! vengeance! Victory or death!"
Happily, the terror of the mountaineers was of short duration. All knew that they must conquer or die. Two ladders were already fixed, despite the hail of bullets, and the combat was once more foot to foot and hand to hand, fiercer and bloodier than before.