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Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of

scarecrows heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light

above the billowy heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in

the sun. A tremendous roar arose from the throat of Saint

Antoine, and a forest of naked arms struggled in the air like

shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind: all the fingers

convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a weapon

that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.