They were again hammering on the door, when the old man, after placing the candle on the window-sill, raised his gun to his shoulder: 'As true as that's a candle,' he shouted, 'I'll send a bullet into the head of the first man who touches my door!' A combat appeared imminent. Curses resounded, and some one shouted that they ought to settle the hash of that swinish peasant, who, like the rest of the litter, would have flung his bread into the water rather than give a bite to a soldier. The chassepots were already levelled, and it seemed certain that he would be shot down, for, in his obstinate rage, he remained standing there, clearly visible in the flaring candle-light. 'Nothing at all,' he resumed, 'not a crust! Everything has been taken from me.' At this moment Maurice, in dire alarm, sprang forward followed by Jean. 'Comrades, comrades!' he shouted as with a blow of his arm he lowered the guns of the marauders; and then, raising his head, he called to Fouchard in a supplicating tone: 'Come, be reasonable. Don't you know me?' 'Who are you?' 'Your nephew, Maurice Levasseur.' Fouchard had taken up the candle again, and, doubtless, he recognised Maurice; but he remained obstinate, determined not to give the men even so much as a glass of water. 'Nephew, indeed!' he growled; 'who can tell in that cursed darkness? Begone all of you, or I'll fire!' And amid the shouts that were then raised, the threats that they would pick him off and fire his shanty, he continued bawling the same phrase, repeating it a score of times: 'Begone all of you, or I'll fire!' 'Even on me, father?' suddenly called a loud voice which resounded above all the tumult. The other men had drawn on one side, and now, in the flickering candle-light, a quartermaster suddenly appeared. It was Honoré, whose battery was stationed less than two hundred yards away, and who, for a couple of hours, had been struggling with a desire he felt to go and knock at his father's door. Yet he had sworn that he would never again cross the threshold, and, during the four years that he had been in the army, he had not once written to the old man whom he now addressed so curtly. The marauders were already talking together with animation, and concerting other measures. So that was the old fellow's son--a quartermaster, eh! Such being the case there was evidently nothing to be done; matters might turn out badly, and they had far better try their luck elsewhere. Thereupon they slunk away, speedily vanishing amid the pitchy darkness. When Fouchard realised that he was saved from being pillaged, he exclaimed, without evincing the slightest emotion, and, in fact, as though he had seen his son only the day before: 'It's you--all right, I'm coming down.'