Marc-Dives, standing in the middle of another group, over whom he towered by a head, talked and gesticulated, now pointing to one part of the mountain, now to another. Opposite him was the old herdsman Lagarmitte, in his gray smock-frock, his dog at his side. He was listening open-mouthed to the smuggler, and from time to time gravely nodded his head. The remainder of the group was composed of wood-cutters and workmen with whom Marc had daily dealings.
Between the saw-pit and the first fire sat the shoemaker Jerome of Saint-Quirin, a man between fifty and sixty years of age; his eyes were sunken, his face long and brown, and his yellow beard descended to his waist; his head was covered with an otter-skin cap; and as he leaned forward upon a heavy knotted staff, in his long woollen great-coat, he might easily have been mistaken for some hermit of the wilds. Whenever any one approached with news, Father Jerome slowly turned his head and listened with bent brows.
Jean Labarbe sat motionless, his elbow resting upon his axe-helve. He was a pale man, with an aquiline nose and thin lips, and exercised a great influence over the men of Dagsbourg by the resolution and force of his character. When those around him cried out for action, he simply said, "Wait; Hullin has not arrived yet, nor Catherine Lefevre. There is no hurry," and all around became quiet.
Piorette, a little, dry, thin, energetic man, with eyebrows meeting over his nose, and a short pipe between his teeth, sat at the threshold of the saw-mill, and gazed with a quick but thoughtful eye at the scene.
Nevertheless, the impatience increased every minute. A few village mayors in cocked hats called upon their people to deliberate. Happily the wagon of Catherine Lefevre at last appeared, and a thousand enthusiastic shouts arose on all sides.
Old Materne stood up upon the trunk of a tree and then descended, gravely saying:
Much excitement now prevailed; the scattered groups collected. Scarcely could the old woman be seen distinctly, seated upon a truss of straw with Louise by her side, when the echoes rang with the cry:
"Long live France! Long live Mother Catherine!"
Hullin, behind, his musket strapped upon his back, was crossing the field of Eichmath, grasping hands and saluting his friends: