"Is this a time to explain?" he shouted. "Come on!"
The old woman covered her head with her hood and descended the stairs with Louise. By the fitful light of the shots, they saw Materne, bare-necked, and his son Kasper, firing from the doorway on the abatis, while ten others behind them loaded and passed the muskets to them. Three or four corpses, lying against the broken wall, added to the horrors of the fight, and thick smoke hung among the rafters.
As he reached the stairs, Hullin cried:
"Here they are, Heaven be thanked!"
And the brave fellows below shouted:
"Courage! courage, Mother Lefevre!"
Then the poor old woman, whose stout heart seemed at last broken, burst into tears. She leaned heavily on Jean-Claude's shoulder; but he lifted her like a feather and ran from the house, skirting the wall to the right. Louise followed, sobbing.
They could hear nothing but the whistling of bullets, or their dull thud as they flattened themselves on the rough east wall, scattering the plaster in showers, or as they hurled the tiles from the roof. In front, not three hundred paces distant, they saw a line of white uniforms, lighted up by their own fire in the black darkness. These the mountaineers on the other side of the ravine of Minières were assailing in flank.
Hullin turned the corner of the house; there all was darkness, and they could scarcely distinguish Doctor Lorquin, on horseback, before a sledge, swinging a long cavalry sabre in his hand and bearing two horse-pistols in his belt, and Frantz Materne, with a dozen men, the butt of his rifle resting on his foot and his lips foaming with rage. Hullin seated Catherine in the sledge and Louise by her side.