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they were taking counsel in the first story, they were building a barricade in the second. Success is madness, defeat is rage. The two stories were about to clash in desperate encounter. To touch victory is intoxicating. Below there was hope, which would be the greatest of all human forces if it were not for despair.

Above, there was despair.

A calm, cold, ominous despair.

On reaching this hall of refuge, beyond which there was nothing left for them, the first care of the besieged was to bar the entrance. It would be of no use to fasten the door. It would be better to block up the stairway. In a case like this, an obstacle through which it is possible to see and to fight is of more value than a fastened door.

The torch placed by l'Imânus in a cresset on the wall, near the sulphur slow match, gave them light.

In this hall on the second floor there was one of those large, heavy oak chests in which clothing and linen were kept before the invention of furniture with drawers. They dragged this chest, and stood it on end in the doorway of the staircase. It fitted in firmly and obstructed the entrance. It left only a narrow space open near the arch, large enough to let a man through, excellent for killing the assailants, one by one. It was doubtful if men would risk themselves there.

Having blocked up the entrance, they took a respite.

They counted their number.

Of the nineteen only seven were left, including l'Imânus. All were wounded except l'Imânus and the marquis.

The five who were wounded, but very active,—for in the heat of battle, all wounds not mortal allow men to come and go,—were Chatenay, called Robi, Guinoiseau,