They drew the benches forward, they sat down, and, in spite of their grief, proceeded to eat with that vigorous appetite of which neither present griefs nor cares for the future can wholly deprive strong men. But that did not prevent a poignant sorrow clutching at the heart of these brave fellows, and first one and then another would suddenly stop, and, laying down his fork, quit the table, saying, "I have had enough." While the mountaineers were thus repairing their strength, their leaders were assembled in the next room, making fresh dispositions for the defence. They were sitting round the table, lighted by a solitary tin lamp; Doctor Lorquin, with his great dog Pluto by his side, Jerôme in the angle of a window on the right, Hullin on the left, quite pale. Marc Divès, with his elbow on the table, his cheek on his hand, had his broad shoulders turned to the door: he only showed his brown profile and one of the corners of his long moustache. Materne alone remained standing, as usual, against the wall, behind Lorquin's chair, his gun at his feet. From the kitchen came the hum of voices. When Catherine, sent for by Hullin, entered, she heard a sort of groaning sound which caused her to start. It was Hullin who was speaking. "All those brave lads, all those fathers of families who fell one after the other," he was saying, in a tone of bitter grief, "do you think that it does not wring my very heart? Do you think that I would not rather a thousand times over have been massacred myself? Ah! You know not what I have suffered this night! To lose your own life is nothing, but to bear alone the weight of such a responsibility----!" He was silent, but the quivering of his lips, a tear that rolled slowly down his cheek, his very attitude, all showed the scruples of the honest man, and that he found himself in a situation where conscience herself hesitates and seeks fresh support. Catherine went very gently and seated herself in a large arm-chair on the left. After a few seconds, Hullin added, in a calmer tone: "Between eleven o'clock and midnight, Zimmer arrived, shouting, 'We are taken in the rear! The Germans are coming down from the Grosmann; Labarbe is dead; Jerôme cannot hold out any longer!' And then he said no more. What was to be done? Could I beat a retreat? Could I abandon a position which had cost us so much blood, the pass of the Donon, the road to Paris? If I had done so, should I not have been a poltroon? But I had only three hundred men against four thousand at Grandfontaine, and I don't know how many who came down from the mountain! Well, cost what it would, I resolved to hold out. It was our duty. I said to myself: 'Life is nothing without honour! We will all die; but it shall never be said that we have surrendered the road to France. No, no; it shall never be said!'"