Nothing could be more picturesque than that halt in the snow, at the bottom of a defile covered to the clouds with high firs; to the right, valley following valley as far as the eye could reach; to the left, the ruins of Falkenstein, reaching, as it seemed, to the sky; and before you groups of thickly bearded men with gloomy brows, broad square shoulders, and hands callous from labor. Some of them, taller than their fellows, were red-haired and white-skinned, and seemed strong as the oaks of the forest. Of this number were old Materne of Hengst and his two sons, Frantz and Kasper. These three, armed with short Innspruck rifles, their high gaiters of blue canvas with leather buttons reaching above the knee, their bodies covered with hare-skin jackets, and their slouched hats pushed far back upon their heads, did not deign to approach the fire. Since one o'clock they had sat upon the felled trunk of a fir by the border of the brook, their eyes constantly on the watch, and their feet buried in the snow. From time to time the old man would say to his sons: "What are they shivering for yonder? I never saw a milder night at this season; it is a fine hunting night; the brooks are not yet frozen." Every hunter as he passed pressed their hands, and then joined his fellows, who formed a separate band, among whom but few words passed, for silence is one of the great virtues of the chase. 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. {177} 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.