"That is true; but get something ready quickly; no matter what, for my appetite is sharp. In the meantime I will smoke a pipe." "Yes, smoke a pipe." He sat at the corner of his work-bench and drummed dreamily upon it. Louise flew to right and left like a veritable fairy, kindling up the fire, breaking eggs, and in the twinkle of an eye she had an omelette ready. Never had she looked so graceful, so joyous, so pretty. Hullin leaned his cheek upon his hand and gazed at her gravely, thinking how much firmness, will, resolution, there was in that little form, light as an antelope, but decided as a cuirassier. In a moment she had laid the omelette before him on a large plate, ornamented with blue flowers, a loaf of bread, his glass, and his bottle of wine. {175} "There, Father Jean-Claude, eat your supper." The fire leaped and crackled in the stove, throwing ruddy stains on the low rafters, the stairs half in shadow and the large bed in the alcove, and lighting up the poor dwelling so often made joyous by the merry humor of the sabot-maker and the songs of his daughter. And Louise would leave all this without regret to brave the wintry woods, the snow-covered paths, and the steep mountain-side, and all for love of him. Neither storm, nor biting wind, nor torrents staid her. She had but one thought, and that was to be near him. The repast ended, Hullin arose, saying: "I am weary, my child; kiss me for good-night." "But do not forget to awake me, Father Jean-Claude, if you start before daybreak." "Rest easy; you will come with us," he answered, as he climbed the narrow stairs. All was silence without, save that the deep tones of the village clock told the hour of eleven. Jean-Claude sat down and unfastened his shoes. Just then his eyes fell upon his musket hung over the door. He took it down, slowly wiped it, and tried the lock. His whole soul was in the work in which he was engaged. "It is strange--strange! The last time I fired it was at Marengo--fourteen years ago, and it seems but yesterday." Suddenly the frozen snow crunched beneath a foot-fall. He listened. Two taps sounded upon the window-panes. He ran and opened the door, and the form of Marc-Dives, his broad hat stiff with ice, emerged from the darkness. "Marc! What news?" "Have you warned Materne, Jerome, Labarbe?" "Yes, all." "It is none too soon; the enemy are advancing." "Advancing?" "Yes; along their whole line. I have come fifteen leagues since morning to give you warning." "Good. We must make the signal: a fire upon Falkenstein." Hullin's face was pale, but his eyes flashed. He again put on his shoes, and two minutes after, with his cloak upon his shoulders and his staff firmly clinched in his hand, he opened the door softly, and with long steps followed Marc-Dives along the path to Falkenstein. Chapter VII. From midnight until six o'clock in the morning a flame shone through the darkness from the summit of Falkenstein.