"It is the volley of a platoon!" cried Hullin; "our men are firing by platoon too! We have soldiers in line! Long live France!"
"Mother Catherine was right," said Jerome; "the men of Phalsbourg are coming to help us; they are descending the hills of the Sarre, and Pivrette is attacking by way of Blanru."
The fusillade was, in fact, commencing on both sides at once, toward the meadows of Bois-de-Chênes and the heights of Kilberi.
Then the two leaders embraced, and as they groped about in the darkness, seeking the edge of the rock, the voice of Materne shouted:
"Take care! the precipice is there."
They stopped short, and looked down, but saw nothing; a current of cold air, from the depths beneath, alone told them of their danger. All the surrounding peaks and valleys were buried in darkness. On the sides of the opposite slope, the flashes of the musketry glanced like lightning, now lighting up an aged oak, or the black outline of a rock, or mayhap a patch of heather, covered with forms rushing hither and thither. From the depths, two thousand feet below, rose a confused murmur, the clattering of horse-hoofs, cries, commands. Now the call of a mountaineer—that prolonged shout which flies from peak to peak—rose like a sigh to Falkenstein.
"That is Marc!" said Hullin.
"Yes, it is Marc cheering us," replied Jerome.
The others, near by, with necks outstretched and hands on the edge of the cliff, gazed wistfully. The fire continued with a rapidity which told of the desperation of the fight; but nothing could be seen. How those poor wretches longed for a part in the struggle! With what ardor would they have hurled themselves into the combat! The fear of yet being abandoned—of seeing the retreat of their rescuers—made them speechless.
Soon day began to break; the pale dawn shone behind the dark peaks; a few rays of light fell into the shadowy valleys, and, half an hour after, silvered the mists of their depths. Hullin, glancing through a break in these clouds, at last understood the state of affairs. The Germans had lost the heights of Valtin and the field of Bois-de-Chênes. They were massed in the valley of Charmes, at the foot of Falkenstein, one third of the way up the slope, so that the fire of their adversaries might not plunge from above upon them. Opposite the rock, Pivrette, master of Bois-de-Chênes, was ordering an abatis to be raised on the descent to the valley. He rushed hither and thither, his short pipe between his teeth, his slouched hat pulled down on his ears, and his rifle slung behind him. The blue axes of the wood-cutters glanced in the rising sun. To the left of the village, on the side of Valtin, in the midst of the heather, Marc-Dives, on a little black horse with a trailing tail, his long sword hanging from his wrist, was pointing out the ruins and the old path over which the wood-cutters were wont to drag their trees. An infantry officer and some National Guards in blue uniforms listened. Gaspard Lefevre alone, in advance of the group, leaned on his musket and seemed meditating. His mien told of desperate resolve. At the top of the hill, two or three hundred men, in line, resting on their arms, gazed on the scene.