entirely Protestant and consequently Napoleonist, announcing that the
miquelets (for after one hundred and ten years the old name given to the
royal troops was revived) were on the way from Montarem, pillaging
houses, murdering magistrates, outraging women, and then throwing them
out of the windows. It is easy to understand the effect of such a story.
The people gathered together in groups; the mayor and his assistant being
absent, Bertrand was taken before a certain Boucarut, who on receiving
his report ordered the generale to be beaten and the tocsin to be rung.
Then the consternation became general: the men seized their muskets, the
women and children stones and pitchforks, and everyone made ready to face
a danger which only existed in the imagination of Bertrand, for there was
not a shadow of foundation for the story he had told.

While the village was in this state of feverish excitement the royal
volunteers came in sight. Hardly were they seen than the cry, "There
they are! There they are!" arose on all sides, the streets were
barricaded with carts, the tocsin rang out with redoubled frenzy, and
everyone capable of carrying arms rushed to the entrance of the village.

The volunteers, hearing the uproar and seeing the hostile preparations,
halted, and to show that their intentions were peaceful, put their shakos
on their musket stocks and waved them above their heads, shouting that no
one need fear, for they would do no harm to anyone. But alarmed as they
were by the terrible stories told by Bertrand, the villagers shouted back
that they could not trust to such assurances, and that if they wanted to
pass through the village they must first give up their weapons. It may
easily be imagined that men who had broken the convention in order to
keep their weapons were not likely to give them up to these villagers--in
fact, they obstinately refused to let them out of their hands, and by
doing so increased the suspicions of the people. A parley of a very