Other contingents, from Valqueyras, Nazere, Castel-le-Vieux, Les Roches-Noires, and Murdaran, dashed to the left, scattering themselves in skirmishing parties over the Nores plain.
And meantime the men of the towns and villages that the wood-cutter had called to his aid mustered together under the elms, there forming a dark irregular mass, grouped without regard to any of the rules of strategy, simply placed there like a rock, as it were, to bar the way or die.

The men of Plassans stood in the middle of this heroic battalion.

Amid the grey hues of the blouses and jackets, and the bluish glitter of the weapons, the pelisse worn by Miette, who was holding the banner with both hands, looked like a large red splotch--a fresh and bleeding wound.
All at once perfect silence fell.

Monsieur Peirotte's pale face appeared at a window of the Hotel de la Mule-Blanche.

And he began to speak, gesticulating with his hands.
"Go in, close the shutters," the insurgents furiously shouted; "you'll get yourself killed." Thereupon the shutters were quickly closed, and nothing was heard save the regular, rhythmical tramp of the soldiers who were drawing near.
A minute, that seemed an age, went by.