Meanwhile, the Varennes Notables, and all men, official, and non-official, are hastily drawing on their breeches; getting their fighting-gear.  Mortals half-dressed tumble out barrels, lay felled trees; scouts dart off to all the four winds,—­the tocsin begins clanging, ‘the Village illuminates itself.’  Very singular:  how these little Villages do manage, so adroit are they, when startled in midnight alarm of war.  Like little adroit municipal rattle-snakes, suddenly awakened:  for their stormbell rattles and rings; their eyes glisten luminous (with tallow-light), as in rattle-snake ire; and the Village will sting!  Old-Dragoon Drouet is our engineer and generalissimo; valiant as a Ruy Diaz:—­Now or never, ye Patriots, for the Soldiery is coming; massacre by Austrians, by Aristocrats, wars more than civil, it all depends on you and the hour!—­National Guards rank themselves, half-buttoned:  mortals, we say, still only in breeches, in under-petticoat, tumble out barrels and lumber, lay felled trees for barricades:  the Village will sting.  Rabid Democracy, it would seem, is not confined to Paris, then?  Ah no, whatsoever Courtiers might talk; too clearly no.  This of dying for one’s King is grown into a dying for one’s self, against the King, if need be.

And so our riding and running Avalanche and Hurlyburly has reached the Abyss, Korff Berline foremost; and may pour itself thither, and jumble:  endless!  For the next six hours, need we ask if there was a clattering far and wide?  Clattering and tocsining and hot tumult, over all the Clermontais, spreading through the Three Bishopricks:  Dragoon and Hussar Troops galloping on roads and no-roads; National Guards arming and starting in the dead of night; tocsin after tocsin transmitting the alarm.  In some forty minutes, Goguelat and Choiseul, with their wearied Hussars, reach Varennes.  Ah, it is no fire then; or a fire difficult to quench!  They leap the tree-barricades, in spite of National serjeant; they enter the village, Choiseul instructing his Troopers how the matter really is; who respond interjectionally, in their guttural dialect, “Der Konig; die Koniginn!” and seem stanch.  These now, in their stanch humour, will, for one thing, beset Procureur Sausse’s house.  Most beneficial:  had not Drouet stormfully ordered otherwise; and even bellowed, in his extremity, “Cannoneers to your guns!”—­two old honey-combed Field-pieces, empty of all but cobwebs; the rattle whereof, as the Cannoneers with assured countenance trundled them up, did nevertheless abate the Hussar ardour, and produce a respectfuller ranking further back.  Jugs of wine, handed over the ranks, for the German throat too has sensibility, will complete the business.  When Engineer Goguelat, some hour or so afterwards, steps forth, the response to him is—­a hiccuping Vive la Nation!