Bernadou obeyed.

He sat at the table, working at a new churn for his wife; he had some
skill at turnery and at invention in such matters. The child slept
soundly in its cradle by the hearth, smiling while it dreamed. Margot
spun at her wheel. Reine Allix sat by the fire, seldom lifting her head
from her long knitting-needles, except to cast a look on her grandson
or at the sleeping child. The little wooden shutter of the house was
closed. Some winter roses bloomed in a pot beneath the little crucifix.
Bernadou's flute lay on a shelf; he had not had heart enough to play it
since the news of the war had come.

Suddenly a great sobbing cry rose without--the cry of many voices, all
raised in woe together. Bernadou rose, took his musket in his hand,
undid his door, and looked out. All the people were turned out into the
street, and the women, loudly lamenting, beat their breasts and strained
their children to their bosoms. There was a sullen red light in the sky
to the eastward, and on the wind a low, hollow roar stole to them.

"What is it?" he asked.

"The Prussians are on us!" answered twenty voices in one accord. "That
red glare is the town burning."

Then they were all still--a stillness that was more horrible than their
lamentations.

Reine Allix came and stood by her grandson. "If we must die, let us die
_here_," she said, in a voice that was low and soft and grave.