After gazing a moment at the group, Jean-Claude turned, saying:
"It is a flag of truce coming to summon us to surrender."
"Fire on him!" cried Catherine; "we have no other answer."
The others all seemed inclined to do so, save Hullin, who, without speaking, descended to the terrace, where the rest of the partisans were gathered.
"My friends," said he, "the enemy sends a flag of truce. We know not what he wants. I suppose it is a summons to lay down our arms; but it may be something else. Frantz and Kasper will go to meet him. They will bandage his eyes at the foot of the rock, and lead him hither."
No one having any objection to make, the sons of Materne slung their carbines on their backs and departed. At the end of about ten minutes the two tall hunters reached the officer; there was a rapid conference between them, after which all three began to climb to Falkenstein. As they ascended, the uniform of the German officer, and even his features, could be clearly seen. He was a lean man, with ashy flaxen hair, tall, well knit, and resolute in movement and appearance. At the foot of the rock Frantz and Kasper bandaged his eyes, and soon their steps were heard beneath the vault. Jean-Claude went to meet them, and himself untied the handkerchief, saying:
"You wish to communicate with me, sir. I am listening."
The partisans stood some fifteen paces off. Catherine Lefevre, nearer, knitted her brows; her bony figure, long, hooked nose, the three or four locks of gray hair which fell by chance upon her hollow temples, and down on her wrinkled cheeks, her tightly pressed lips, and fixed gaze, seemed first to attract the officer's attention; then the pale and gentle face of Louise behind her; then Jerome, with his long, yellow beard and cloak; and old Materne leaning on his short rifle. He looked at the others, and at the high, red vault, with its colossal mass of granite hanging over the precipice, and covered only with a few brambles. Hexe-Baizel, behind Materne, her long broom of twigs in her hands, her outstretched neck and feet, on the very, edge of the rock, seemed to astonish him.
He himself was the object of much attention. His attitude and bearing, long face, finely-cut bronzed features, clear gray eye and thin mustache, the delicacy of his limbs, hardened by the toils of war, all bespoke aristocratic lineage; and he had, too, a look of shrewdness mingled with that of the man of the world, the soldier, and the diplomatist.