The flash of the firing was so bright, that, through the yellow gleams Macquart distinctly saw Rougon taking aim.

He fancied that his brother's gun was deliberately levelled at himself, and he recalled Felicite's blush, and made his escape, muttering: "No tricks! The rascal would kill me.

He owes me eight hundred francs." In the meantime a loud howl had arisen amid the darkness.

The surprised Republicans shouted treachery, and fired in their turn.

A national guard fell under the porch.