The recluse had seated herself on the ground close beside her daughter，covering her with her body，her eyes fixed，listening to the poor child，who，as she lay motionless，kept murmuring the one word，'P us！P us！'
As the work of demolition seemed to advance，so the mother drew mechanically farther back，pressing the girl closer and closer against the wall.All at once she saw the stone，from which she had never taken her eyes，begin to give way，and hear the voice of Tristan urging on the men.At this she awoke from the kind of stupor into which she had fallen for a few moments，and cried aloud；and her voice as she spoke now lacerated the ear like the rasp of a saw，now faltered and choked as if every kind of execration crowded to her lips to burst forth at once.'Ho，ho，ho！but'tis horrible！Robbers！brigands！Are ye truly coming to take my daughter from me？I tell you，'tis my own child！Oh，cowards！oh，hangman's slaves！miserable hired cut-throats and assassins！Help！help！Fire！And can they have the heart to take my child from me thus？Who is it then they call the good God in heaven？'
Then，addressing herself to Tristan，foaming，glaring，bristling，on all-fours like a panther：'Now come and dare to take my daughter from me.Dost thou not understand when this woman tells thee'tis her daughter？Dost thou know what it is to have a child，eh，thou wolf？Hast thou never lain with thy mate？Hast never had a cub by her？
And if thou hast little ones，when they howl，is there never an answering stir within thee？'
'Down with the stone，'said Tristan；'it is loose enough now.'
The crowbars heaved the heavy block.It was the mother's last bulwark.She threw herself upon it，trying to hold it in its place；she furrowed the stone with her nails—in vain；the great mass，displaced by half a dozen men，escaped her grasp and slid slowly to the ground along the iron levers.
The mother，seeing the breach effected，then cast herself across the opening，barring it with her body，writhing，striking her head against the floor，and shrieking in a voice so hoarse with anguish and fatigue that the words were hardly articulate：
'Help！Fire！Help！'
'Now，then，take the girl，'said Tristan，imperturbably.
The mother faced the soldiers with so menacing a glare that they seemed more fain to retreat than advance.
'Forward！'cried the provost.'Henriet Cousin—you！'
No one advanced a step.
The provost rapped out an oath.'Tête-Christ！my soldiers afraid of a woman！'
'Monseigneur，'ventured Henriet，'you call that a woman？'
'She has a bristling mane like a lion，'said another.
'Forward！'repeated the provost.'The gap is large enough.Enter three abreast，as at the breach of Pontoise.Let's make an end of it，death of Mahomet！The first man that draws back，I cleave him in two！'
Fixed thus between the devil and the deep sea，the soldiers hesitated a moment，then，deciding for the lesser evil，advanced upon the Rat-Hole.
When the recluse saw this，she swept back her long hair from her eyes，struggled to her knees，and dropped her bleeding and emaciated hands upon them.Great tears welled up one by one to her eyes and rolled down a long furrow in her cheeks，like a torrent down the bed it has hollowed out.And then she began to speak，but in a voice so suppliant，so gentle，so submissive and heart-breaking that more than one hardened old fire-eater in Tristan's company furtively wiped his eyes.
'Good sirs，'said she，'messieurs the sergeants，one word.There is a thing I must tell you.This is my daughter，look you—my dear little child who was lost to me！Listen，'tis quite a story.It may surprise you，but I know messieurs the sergeants well.They were always good to me in the days when the little urchins threw stones at me because I was a wanton.Look you；you will leave me my child when you know all！I was a poor wanton.The gipsies stole her from me—by the same token I have kept her shoe these fifteen years.Look，here it is.She had a foot like that.At Reims.La Chantefleurie！Rue Folle-Peine！Perhaps you knew of this？It was I.In your young days；then it was a merry time，and there were merry doings！You will have pity on me，won't you，good sirs？The gipsies stole her，and hid her from me for fifteen years.I thought her dead.Picture to yourself，my good friends，that I thought her dead.I have passed fifteen years here，in this stone cave，without any fire in winter.That is hard.The poor，sweet little shoe！I cried so long to God that he heard me.You will not take her from me，I am sure.Even if'twere me you wanted，I would not mind；but a child of sixteen！Leave her a little while longer to live in the sunshine！What has she done to you？Nothing at all.Nor I either.If you only knew—I have no one but her.I am old—this is a blessing sent me from the Holy Virgin！And then，you are all so good！you did not know that it was my daughter；but now you know.Oh，I love her！Monsieur the Chief Provost，I would rather have a stab in my body than a scratch on her little finger！You have the air of a kind gentleman！What I tell you now explains the whole matter，surely？Oh！if you have a mother，sir—you are the captain，leave me my child！See how I entreat you on my knees，as we pray to Jesus Christ！I ask not alms of any one.Sirs，I come from Reims；I have a little field from my uncle Mahiet Pradon.I am not a beggar.I want nothing—nothing but my child！Oh，I want to keep my child！The good God，who is master over all，has not given her back to me for nothing.The
King！—you say the King！It cannot give him much pleasure that they should kill my daughter！Besides，the King is good！She is my daughter；mine，not the King's！She does not belong to him！I will go away！we will both go.After all，just two women passing along the road—a mother and her daughter；you let them go their way in peace！Let us go；we come from Reims.Oh，you are kind，messieurs the sergeants.I have nothing to say against you.You will not take my darling；it is not possible！Say it is not possible！My child！My child！'