"George, I have come to render you a service--I--" Pradeline could not finish her sentence. Lebrenn, who had in vain been parleying with the captain of the Municipal Guards, turned around and cried out: "They insist upon war! Very well, war it shall be! Wait for them to open fire--then return it." The Municipal Guard fired; the insurgents responded; soon a cloud of smoke hovered above the barricade. Shots were fired from the neighboring windows; shots came from the air-holes of the cellars; even the old grandfather of George Duchene could be seen at his attic window throwing upon the heads of the Municipal Guard, in default of better arms and ammunition, all manner of household furniture and kitchen utensils--tables, chairs, pots and pitchers; in short, everything that could go through the window was hurled down by the good old invalid of toil, as Lebrenn had justly styled him. It was an almost comic sight. The old man seemed to be moving out by the window. When his supply of projectiles was exhausted, he threw in despair even his cotton cap at the troops. He then looked around, disconsolate at finding nothing more handy to his purpose, but immediately a shout of triumph went up from his throat, and he began to tear up the roof tiles that were within reach of his hands, and to fling them one after the other down upon the soldiers. The engagement was hotly contested. After returning the discharges of the insurgents with several rounds of shot, the Municipalists rushed intrepidly upon the barricade with felled bayonets, expecting to carry it by assault. Several groups could be descried through the dense whitish smoke that settled and rose over the top of the barricade. In one of these groups, Marik Lebrenn, after having discharged his gun, was wielding it as a club to drive the assailants back. His son and George, close behind him, seconded his efforts vigorously. From time to time, and without lagging in the fight, father and son cast a hurried glance at the half open blinds above their heads, and off and on these words reached their ears: "Courage, Marik!" would come from Madam Lebrenn. "Courage, my son!" "Courage, father!" echoed Velleda. "Courage, brother!" A stray bullet shattered with a great clatter one of the thin slats of the lattice behind which the two heroic women were posted. The two true Gallic women, as Lebrenn called them, did not wince. They remained in their places to watch the merchant and his son.