A low and quick talking, like the murmur of a hurried priest galloping through a mass, was heard; it was probably the police commissary making the legal summons at the other end of the street; then the same loud voice which had shouted "Who goes there?" cried,-- "Withdraw!" M. Mabœuf, livid, haggard, with his eyeballs illumined by the mournful flames of mania, raised the flag about his head and repeated,-- "Long live the republic!" "Fire!" the voice commanded. A second discharge, resembling a round of grape-shot, burst against the barricade; the old man sank on his knees, then rose again, let the flag slip from his hand, and fell back on the pavement like a log, with his arms stretched out like a cross. Streams of blood flowed under him, and his old, pale, melancholy face seemed to be gazing at heaven. One of those emotions stronger than man, which makes him forget self-defence, seized on the insurgents, and they approached the corpse with respectful horror. "What men these regicides are!" said Enjolras. Courfeyrac whispered in Enjolras's ear,-- "This is only between ourselves, as I do not wish to diminish the enthusiasm; but this man was anything rather than a regicide. I knew him, and his name was Mabœuf. I do not know what was the matter with him to-day, but he was a brave idiot. Look at his head." "The head of an idiot and the heart of Brutus!" Enjolras replied; then he raised his voice:-- "Citizens! such is the example which the old give to the young. We hesitated and he came; we recoiled and he advanced. This is what those who tremble with old age teach those who tremble with fear! This aged man is august before his country; he has had a long life and a magnificent death! Now let us place his corpse under cover; let each of us defend this dead old man as he would defend his living father; and let his presence in the midst of us render the barricade impregnable!" A murmur of gloomy and energetic adhesion followed these words. Enjolras bent down, raised the old man's head and sternly kissed him on the forehead; then, stretching out his arms and handling the dead man with tender caution, as if afraid of hurting him, he took off his coat, pointed to the blood-stained holes, and said,-- "This is now our flag!" CHAPTER III. GAVROCHE HAD BETTER HAVE ACCEPTED THE CARBINE OF ENJOLRAS. A long black shawl of Widow Hucheloup's was thrown over Father Mabœuf: six men made a litter of their muskets, the corpse was laid on them, and they carried it with bare heads and solemn slowness to a large table in the ground-floor room. These men, entirely engaged with the grave and sacred thing they were doing, did not think of the perilous situation in which they were, and when the corpse was carried past the stoical Javert, Enjolras said to the spy,-- "Your turn will come soon."