er the terrible responsibility that weighed upon him.
On Thursday he came to the conclusion that the position of Orcheres
was a decidedly dangerous one; so towards one o'clock he gave orders to
march, and led his little army to the heights of Sainte-Roure. That was,
indeed, an impregnable position for any one who knew how to defend it.
The houses of Sainte-Roure rise in tiers along a hill-side; behind the
town all approach is shut off by enormous rocks, so that this kind of
citadel can only be reached by the Nores plain, which spreads out at the
foot of the plateau. An esplanade, converted into a public walk planted
with magnificent elms, overlooks the plain. It was on this esplanade
that the insurgents encamped. The hostages were imprisoned in the Hotel
de la Mule-Blanche, standing half-way along the promenade. The night
passed away heavy and black. The insurgents spoke of treachery. As soon
as it was morning, however, the man with the sabre, who had neglected to
take the simplest precautions, reviewed the troops. The contingents were
drawn up in line with their backs turned to the plain. They presented
a wonderful medley of costume, some wearing brown jackets, others
dark greatcoats, and others again blue blouses girded with red sashes.
Moreover, their arms were an equally odd collection: there were newly
sharpened scythes, large navvies' spades, and fowling-pieces with
burnished barrels glittering in the sunshine. And at the very moment
when the improvised general was riding past the little army, a sentry,
who had been forgotten in an olive-plantation, ran up gesticulating and
shouting:

"The soldiers! The soldiers!"

There was indescribable emotion. At first, they thought it a false
alarm. Forgetting all discipline, they rushed forward to the end of the
esplanade in order to see the soldiers. The ranks were broken, and as
the dark line of troops appeared, marching in perfect order with a long
glitter of bayonets, on the other side of the greyish curtain of olive
trees, there came a hasty and disorderly retreat, which sent a quiver of
panic to the other end of the plateau. Nevertheless, the contingents
of La Palud and Saint-Martin-de-Vaulx had again formed in line in
the middle of the promenade, and stood there erect and fierce. A
wood-cutter, who was a head taller than any of his companions, shouted,
as he waved his red neckerchief: "To arms, Chavanoz, Graille, Poujols,
Saint-Eutrope! To arms, Les Tulettes! To arms