On the approach of day, clouds of mist began to rise from the valley, the fires hissed with the damp, and all around could be seen sleeping men: one stretched on his back, with his arms thrown under his hat, a blue face, and doubled-up legs; another with his cheek on his arm and his back to the fire; the greater number seated, with bent heads and their muskets slung across their shoulders. All was silent, wrapped in purple light or gray tints, just as the fire blazed or smouldered. Then, in the distance, could be discerned the profile of the sentinels, with their muskets across their arms or clubbed upon the ground, gazing into the cloud-filled abyss beneath them. To the right, fifty paces from the last fire, could be heard the neighing of horses, and people stamping with their feet to warm themselves, and talking aloud. "Master Jean-Claude is coming," said Kasper, going toward them. One of the partisans having thrown a few sticks of dry wood on to the fire, there was a bright blaze; and Marc Divès's men on horseback, twelve tall fellows, wrapped in their long gray cloaks, their felts slouched back over their shoulders, with their long mustaches either turned up or falling down to their necks, their sabres in their grasp, stood motionless round the load of cartridges. Farther on Catherine Lefèvre crouched down in her cart, her hood over her face, her feet in the straw, her back against a large barrel. Behind her was a caldron, a gridiron, a fresh-killed pig, scalded all white and red, with some strings of onions and cabbages for making soup. All stood out of the darkness for a second, and then relapsed into night. Divès, having quitted the convoy, advanced on his powerful horse. "Is it you, Jean-Claude?" "Yes, Marc." "I have some few thousand cartridges there. Hexe-Baizel is working day and night." "Good!" "Yes, old fellow. And Catherine Lefèvre brings provisions as well; she killed yesterday." "All right, Marc: we shall want all that. The battle is impending." "Yes, yes, I thought so; we came quickly. Where is the powder to be put?" "There, under the cart-house behind the farm. Ah, is that you, Catherine?" "Of course, Jean-Claude. It is dreadfully cold this morning!" "You are always the same. Have you no fear?" "What! should I be a woman if I were not curious? I must poke my nose everywhere." "Yes, you always make excuses for the fine and noble things you do." "Hullin, you are wearisome with your repetitions; let me alone with your compliments. Must not all those people eat? Can they live on air in such weather as this? And is not air fattening on a day so cold--like needles and razors. So I took my measures. Yesterday we slaughtered an ox--poor Schwartz, you know--he weighed a good nine hundred. I have brought his hind-quarters for this morning's soup."