"Jerôme, Catherine, Materne, and you all, are you dead? Do you not see that fire down there, on the side of the Blanru? It is Piorette, who is coming to our assistance." And, at the very same moment, a loud explosion rolled through the gorges of the Jægerthâl with the sound of a tempest. The trumpet of the last judgment would not have produced more effect on the besieged; they suddenly awoke. "It is Piorette! It is Marc!" was screeched by voices, broken, dry--voices of mere skeletons; "they come to save us!" And all these poor wretches strove to rise; some sobbed; but they had no more tears. A second explosion brought them to their feet. "Surely that is platoon firing," exclaimed Hullin; "our people fire also in platoons; we have soldiers of the line; hurrah for France!" "Yes," replied Jerôme, "Dame Catherine was right; the Phalsbourgians are coming to our relief; they are descending the hills of the Sarre, and there is Piorette, now heading the attack on the Blanru." In effect, the firing began to resound from both sides at once, towards the plateau of the Bois-des-Chênes and the towering heights of the Kilbéri. Then the two leaders embraced each other; and as they walked on tiptoe through the thick darkness, trying to gain the edge of the rock, all of a sudden Materne's voice was heard, loudly exclaiming: "Take care, my lads, the precipice is there!" They stopped, looking down at their feet; but there was nothing to be seen; a gust of cold air coming up from the abyss alone warned you of the danger. All the mountain tops and the surrounding gorges were plunged in thick darkness. On the sides of the mountain opposite, the lights from the firing flashed like lightnings, illuminating now an old oak, the dark outline of a rock, now a cluster of furze bushes, and groups of men going and coming as in the midst of a fire. Two thousand feet below, in the depth of the gorges, were heard heavy sounds, the gallop of horses, confused clamours mingling with the word of command. At times the cry of the mountaineer hailing, that prolonged cry, echoing from one mountain top to the other, "He! oh! he!" rose to the topmost height of the Falkenstein like a sigh. "It is Marc," said Hullin; "it is the voice of Marc." "Yes, it is Marc who is bidding us keep up our courage," replied Jerôme. All the others, crouching round them, with outstretched neck, and hands grasping the edge of the rock, strained their eyes to see. The firing continued with a vivacity which betrayed the fierceness of the battle, but it was impossible to see anything. Oh, what would they have given to take part in this supreme conflict, the unfortunates! With what ardour would they have thrown themselves into the fray! The dread of being again abandoned, of seeing at daylight their defenders in retreat, rendered them dumb with fear.