During the battle, they thought only of defending themselves and repulsing the enemy; then, too, night had veiled the disasters which day revealed in all their horror. On one side, walls blackened by the conflagration barely supported the tottering carpentry. Farther on was the town hall, of which only the walls remained. Its windows were broken, its balcony demolished, its doors burned to ashes, its foundations charred, and showers of balls everywhere proved that the citizens had defended themselves with vigorous earnestness. The large square of La Ciotat, the theatre of the most murderous conflict of that fatal night, was covered with dead bodies. Nothing could be more heartrending than to see the afflicted inhabitants seeking a father, a brother, a son, or a friend among these dead. When they recognised one whom they sought, the others, petrified with grief, would look on in silence; again, some would utter impotent cries for vengeance; and some in their wild lamentation would rush to the port, as if they would there find the galleys of the lawless brigands. The commander and Father Elzear walked through this scene of desolation, speaking words of consolation to the unfortunate sufferers, and asking information of Raimond V. They learned that he had made a most valuable and courageous defence, by attacking the pirates at the head of the company from Maison-Forte, but no one could tell them if the baron was wounded or not. The two brothers, in their anxiety, hastened to Maison-Forte, followed by a few subordinate officers of the galley, and by Luquin Trinquetaille, who had also anchored his polacre in the port. They arrived at the Castle des Anbiez. The bridge was lowered, and the great court deserted, although it was the hour for work. They mounted the stairs in haste, and reached the immense hall in which the pious Christmas ceremonies had taken place the evening before. All the inmates of Maison-Forte, men, women, old people, and children, were kneeling in this vast hall, where reigned the most profound silence. So absorbed was this crowd in its devotions, and so anxiously did they watch the half-open door of the baron’s chamber, that not one perceived the entrance of the commander and Father Elzear. At the bottom of the hall, under the dais, was the cradle, the masterpiece of Dame Dulceline and the good chaplain. A few candles still burned in the copper chandeliers. The colossal Christmas log was smoking in the depth of the vast chimney, still ornamented with green branches and fruits and flowers and ribbons. Nothing seemed more startling than this scene lighted by the first pale rays of a winter day; nothing more painful than the contrast between the feast of the night and the sorrow of the morning. After having contemplated this quiet and imposing scene, the commander gently called aside some of the baron’s vassals to open a way to the door of the baron’s chamber.