"March, rascal, you bastard! Hold up your
flag - higher up still - you are big enough to do that!" Blows
follow with the but-ends of their muskets. The poor man spits
blood, but this is of no consequence; he must be in full sight at
the head of the crowd, like a target, whilst his conductors
prudently remain behind. Thus does he advance, exposed to bullets,
holding the flag, and finally becomes the prisoner of the red
rosettes, who release him, but keep his flag. There is a second
march with a red flag held by a town valet, and fresh gunshots; the
red rosettes capture this flag also, as well as another municipal
officer. The rest of the municipal body, with a royal commissioner,
take refuge in the barracks and order out the troops. Meanwhile
Froment, with his three companies, posted in their towers and in the
houses on the ramparts, resist to the last extremity. Daylight
comes, the tocsin is sounded, the drums beat to arms, and the
patriot militia of the neighborhood, the Protestants from the
mountains, the rude C?venols, arrive in crowds.
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