"You see, Jean-Claude," said she, in a calm, grave tone, "Yégof was not wrong." "No doubt, no doubt he was not wrong," replied Hullin; "but what does that prove? A fool--a maniac, who goes from village to village--who comes down from Alsace, goes back to Lorraine, wanders right and left--it would be very surprising if he saw nothing, and if there should not be from time to time a mixture of truth in his mad sayings. All kinds of things get mixed up in his head, and then people think they understand what he does not understand himself. But it is not now a question of a fool's babblings, Catherine. The Austrians are here. The question is, whether we shall allow them to pass, or whether we shall have the courage to defend ourselves." "To defend ourselves!" exclaimed the old woman, her pale cheeks flushing with excitement; "whether we shall have the courage to defend ourselves! You must forget, Hullin, that it is to me you are speaking. What! are we then unworthy of our forefathers? Did they not defend themselves, even to the death--men, women, and children?" "Then you are for fighting, Catherine?" "Yes, yes, as long as a morsel of flesh is left on my bones! Let them come! The old woman is prepared!" Her long gray hair seemed to stand erect upon her head; her pale and withered cheeks trembled, and her eyes flashed fire. She was really grand to look upon, as she stood, flushed and excited, like that aged Margareth of whom Yégof had spoken. Hullin silently held out his hand to her, and smiled approvingly. "Right!" said he; "right! The same as ever. You are like yourself, Catherine; your own true, brave self, as you stand there before me; but now be a little calm, and listen to me. We are going to fight, and with what means?" "All and every means; all are good--hatchets, scythes, pitchforks." "Truly, truly; but guns and bullets are best of all. We have guns: every dweller in the mountains hangs his own over his door; unluckily we have neither powder nor ball." The old farm-mistress grew calm in a moment; pushing her gray locks back under her cap, she stood absently gazing straight before her, with a thoughtful look. "Yes," she suddenly replied, in a sharp, short tone; "that is quite true; we have neither powder nor ball, but we soon will have. Marc Divès, the smuggler, has some. You shall go to him to-morrow from me. You will tell him that Catherine Lefévre buys of him all his powder and all his bullets, that she pays him for them, that she will sell all her cattle, her farm, her land, all--all--to procure some. Do you understand, Hullin?" "I understand. This is well done of you, Catherine; it is splendid!"