There's Pruinas! Roches Noires! Those last are smugglers: they are carrying carbines.

Still more scythes and pitchforks, the contingents of country folk are still passing.
Castel-le-Vieux! Sainte-Anne! Graille! Estourmel! Murdaran!" His voice was husky with emotion as he finished naming these men, who seemed to be borne away by a whirlwind as fast as he enumerated them.
Erect, with glowing countenance, he pointed out the several contingents with a nervous gesture.

Miette followed his movements.

The road below attracted her like the depths of a precipice.

To avoid slipping down the incline she clung to the young man's neck.