The cart-shed, let to a cooper, was littered with old hoops and broken casks, of which there were piles in every corner.

The guns were stored in the middle, in three long boxes.

A taper, stuck on a piece of wood, illumined the strange scene with a flickering glimmer.
When Rougon had removed the covers of the three boxes, the spectacle became weirdly grotesque.

Above the fire-arms, whose barrels shown with a bluish, phosphorescent glitter, were outstretched necks and heads that bent with a sort of secret fear, while the yellow light of the taper cast shadows of huge noses and locks of stiffened hair upon the walls.
However, the reactionary forces counted their numbers, and the smallness of the total filled them with hesitation.

They were only thirty-nine all told, and this adventure would mean certain death for them.