M. le Curé said nothing; a keen glance of wonder, yet of subdued
triumph, shot from under his eyelids. As for me, I wrung my hands: 'What
you say will be superstition; it will be hypocrisy,' I cried.

But at that moment a further incident occurred. Suddenly, while we
deliberated, a long loud peal of a trumpet sounded into the air. I have
already said that many sounds had been heard before; but this was
different; there was not one of us that did not feel that this was
addressed to himself. The agitation was extreme; it was a summons, the
beginning of some distinct communication. The crowd scattered; but for
myself, after a momentary struggle, I went forward resolutely. I did not
even look back at my wife. I was no longer Martin Dupin, but the Maire
of Semur, the saviour of the community. Even Bois-Sombre quailed: but I
felt that it was in me to hold head against death itself; and before I
had gone two steps I felt rather than saw that M. le Curé had come to my
side. We went on without a word; gradually the others collected behind
us, following yet straggling here and there upon the inequalities of the
ground.

Before us lay the cloud that was Semur, a darkness defined by the
shining of the summer day around, the river escaping from that gloom as
from a cavern, the towers piercing through, but the sunshine thrown back
on every side from that darkness. I have spoken of the walls as if we
saw them, but there were no walls visible, nor any gate, though we all
turned like blind men to where the Porte St. Lambert was. There was the
broad vacant road leading up to it, leading into the gloom. We stood
there at a little distance. Whether it was human weakness or an
invisible barrier, how can I tell? We stood thus immovable, with the
trumpet pealing out over us, out of the cloud. It summoned every man as