The sun was going down behind the hills, like a drowsy boy to his bed, radiant and weary from his day's sport.

The villagers were up at Dalgrothe Mountain, soldiering for Valmond.

Every evening, when the haymakers put up their scythes, the mill-wheel stopped turning, and the Angelus ceased, the men marched away into the hills, where the ardent soldier of fortune had pitched his camp.
Tents, muskets, ammunition came out of dark places, as they are ever sure to come when the war-trumpet sounds.

All seems peace, but suddenly, at the wild call, the latent barbarian in human nature springs up and is ready; and the cruder the arms, the fiercer the temper that wields.
Recruits now arrived from other parishes, and besides those who came every night to drill, there were others who stayed always in camp.

The lime-burner left his kiln, and sojourned with his dogs at Dalgrothe Mountain; the mealman neglected his trade; and Lajeunesse was no longer at his blacksmith shop, save after dark, when the red glow of his forge could be seen till midnight.