the pelting rain.

[*][Note from Brett: The original uses "clowds," but I think
"clouds" was intended.]

Since the arrival of the Germans, the Church bell had not rung.
It was in fact the only resistance with which the invaders met in
that neighborhood, the resistance of the bell-tower. The Curate
had not refused to receive and feed Prussian soldiers; he had even,
on several occasions, accepted to drink a bottle of beer or claret
with the enemy Commander, who often used him as a benevolent
intermediary. But it was useless to ask him for a single ring of
his bell; he would rather have faced a firing squad. That was his
way of protesting against invasion, a peaceful protest, the protest
of silence, the only one, said he, that became a priest, a man of
peace and not of blood. And everybody for ten miles around praised
the firmness, the heroism of Father Chantavoine, who dared to affirm
the public mourning and proclaim it by the obstinate mutism of his
Church.

The entire village, enthusiastic about this resistance, was ready
to support and back up its pastor to the bitter end, to risk
anything, considering this tacit protest as a safeguard of the
national honor. It seemed to the peasants that in this way they
deserved better of their country than Belfort or Strasbourg, that
they had given just as good an example, that the name of their hamlet
would remain immortal for it; and with that single exception, they
refused nothing to the victorious Prussians.

The Commander and his officers laughed in private at this manifestation