University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Above six months had passed after the flight of Wyvil, yet had no tidings of his
safety arrived to cheer the gentle heart of Alice; for it was autumn still, when he
effected his escape from Woolverton; and now winter was over, and the earlier months
of spring-time; and the young days of June were scattering their sweets over the smiling
earth. But it was on a different scene from any yet described, and in a distant
country, that the sun, verging fast toward the west, was pouring his soft light, when the
events occurred wherewith we purpose to resume our narrative.

It was a wild and broken country, covered in many parts with heavy wood and
tangled thickets, full of ravines, and intersected by a number of small streams and rivulets,
and altogether as unlike the environs of a great city as can well be imagined; yet
it was in the very heart of France, scarcely ten leagues from the metropolis, lying
between Corbeil upon the Scine, and the small town of Villeneuve, yet nearer to the
gates of Paris. Among the defiles, then it was, which intersected at that day the forest
land that covered so much of that part of France, and at an advanced hour of the evening,
that a small band of horsemen were advancing slowly and with much caution, as
if they had been almost in the face of an enemy. They were not above ten in number,
and consisted, as might be seen at a glance, of two gentlemen with their train of armed
attendants; yet there was something in the style of their accoutrements and harness
which showed that they were either actually engaged in some military service, or at
least were prepared for some unusual danger; for although those were times wherein
no gentleman went forth unarmed, or without soldierlike retainers, still it was quite
unusual for either men or masters to wear defensive armor, unless in actual warfare.
The leaders of the party, who rode some two or three horses' lengths in front of their
followers, were both young men, and eminently handsome; but as different as it is
possible to conceive in the style of their beauty. He who rode to the right was clad in
a complete suit of bright steel—an open helmet with a tall plume of ostrich feathers
covered his head, and cast a darker shade over a face, the hues of which were naturally
of the darkest that are ever seen in Europeans—his eyes were of a quick and lustrons
black, full of enthusiastic life and rapid energy; his features manly and decided, yet at
the same time delicately shaped and singularly handsome; a small coal-black mustache
penciled his short-curved upper lip, and a profusion of black curls fell down beneath
the rim of his bright morion, over the gorget and cuirass which armed his body. Taslets
of steel were on his thighs, and his legs, from the knee downward, were protected by
stout boots of polished leather, bedecked with the gilt spurs of knighthood; a long
straight broadsword suspended from a scarf of white silk fringed with gold, and pistols
of two feet in length, completed the accoutrements of the young chevalier. His comrade,
though he was mounted on a noble charger, and though he wore both sword and
pistols, was less elaborately harnessed; for in place of a helmet, he had a hat of black
velvet with a band of white feathers running around it, a mode which was at that time
in its first commencement, and deemed the very point device of military foppery. A
coat of maroon-colored velvet, with cuirass above it, crossed by a white scarf like his
friend's, breeches and gauntlets of white chamois leather, and polished riding boots,
were the nearest of anything he wore to military decoration. Something too of the
same distinction, which would not but be noticed in the accountrements of the leaders,
was perceptible in those of the retainers; for while the four stout able-bodied men,
who followed the last-mentioned rider, were evidently nothing more than the ordinary
armed servants of the day, the others were unquestionably regular troops, and as such
were equipped with the heaviest horse-armor of the day. It was not in their dress,
however, nor in the style of their arms, that the principal difference between the party
consisted; for while the soldier's hair and eyes and whole complexion were extraordinarily
dark, his comrade was distinguished by all the attributes of English beauty, fair
skin and rich brown locks, and—but it needs not to describe him further, for no one

who had ever seen him, could have failed to discover in the gay cavalier of France, the
person of the English Wyvil.

“Well, Captain Wyvil,” said the dark-featured soldier, turning toward his companion,
after a long pause in their conversation; “here are we now, within a scant league of
Villeneuve St. George; and night fast drawing on, and not a sign can we discover, not
a word can we learn from any one of this advance, so loudly bruited of Monsieur de
Lorraine. I begin shrewdly to suspect those intercepted letters were but a ruse of the
princes to force Turenne to raise the leaguer of Etampis! I am in doubt how to proceed,
for we have reconnoitered all the country hither, and the marechal's orders were
distinct that we should not cross the Hyère; and here it is, just in the hollow way
beyond that wooded hill. There, you can see its waters glittering in the sunshine three
miles or so to the eastward by the top of yon ash-tree.”

“I scarce know how to counsel you, Bellechassaigne,” replied the other, “not knowing
how the country lies, nor what hamlets or farm-houses are scattered through this
forest. It will not do, however, to fall back on the marechal, without some sure intelligence.
If we can go so far onward, without incurring much risk of discovery, as to
get a view from yon hill-top, I think we ought to do so. For thence we shall be enabled
to overlook Villeneuve, and see, if nothing more, whether the troops of Lorraine have
occupied that town in force.

“Forward, then, forward;” cried the other gayly. “There is some peril in it certainly,
for if monsieur is in Villeneuve at all, be sure he has outposts on this side the river;
the rather that the cross-road from Brie-conte-Robert and Grosbois intersects there with
this by which we are advancing. But where the devil would the fun be in warfare,
any more than in dull peace, if there were not a spice of danger in it? So forward, I
say, forward!”

“Let it be quickly then,” said Marmaduke; “for as you said but now it is fast
waxing late, and, if we are to have some fighting, we may as well have light to do it
by; and if not, then it behooves us to look out for a snug place to bivouac, before it
grows too dark to choose one.”

“Forward, then, trot!” cried Bellechassaigne, raising his voice, so that its tones could
reach the ears of the men behind, striking his charger at the same time with the spear;
“and now I think of it,” he aded, “it were as well to be upon our guard—unsling
your carbines, look to your matches, and be ready!”

As the last order issued from his lips, they had reached the bottom of the small sandy
hollow—the road bordered on either hand by a thick growth of coppice, here and there
a tall tree interspersed, and winding up a large ascent in front of them to the summit of
the woody hill, when they expected to overlook the level country toward the junction
of the Seine and Marne, in which direction it was reported that the Prince of Lorraine
was advancing. The command was obeyed promptly, and with their musketoons
thrown forward, and eye, ear, heart on the alert, the troopers trotted rapidly up the rough
stony hill—and now they were within a hundred yards of the summit, and a few seconds
more would have placed them on the verge, in full view of whatever there might be
beyond its woody screen—when suddenly a faint long note, as of a trumpet keenly
winded, but far distant, came down the summer wind: the quick ear of Bellechassaigne
caught it upon the instant.

“Halt!” he cried—“Halt! we are upon them, Wyvil.”

“Let us two then dismount,” returned the Englishman, leaping to the ground as he
spoke; “we may creep on under the covert of those fir-trees and reconnoitre them with
ease. Here,” he continued, turning to his servants—“here, Adam, hold my charger—
and see you stir not without orders—best doff your helmet, Bellechassaigne, its glitter
would betray us if a stray sunbeam should flash upon it.”

The gay young Frenchman smiled and vaulted lightly from his charger, unclasped
the chin-strap of his morion, and passed it to the nearest of his troopers; then drawing
out his pistols from the holsters, he waved his hand to Wyvil, and they advanced together
with stealthy steps, till they had reached the brow of the hill; when they crept

into the covert to the right hand of the road, where a thick tuft of stunted fir-trees
afforded a sure hiding-place, and were lost to the eyes of their followers. Scarce had
they made three steps into the shadow, before a vast and glorious landscape was spread
out like a map before them; a wide rich champagne, covered with the tall crops of
waving grain and fertile pastures, checkered with woods and orchards, and dotted with
a thousand hamlets—the broad bright courses of the Seine and Marne rolling in silver
labyrinths among the verdure, and the blue domes and gothic spires of the metropolis
just seen through the thin haze which curtained the horizon. Nearer, and in the foreground
as it were of this grand picture, lay the small town of Villeneuve beyond the
river Hyère, which wound—now seen, now lost among the glades of the thick wood
that clothed the northern slope of the height whereon they stood, down to the margin
of the stream; and the broad yellow road by which they had advanced, receded in long
clear perspective downward to the stone bridge and the barriers of the town.

It must not be supposed, however, that the two partieans had any leisure to survey
the scene, or even to consider whether the landscape in itself was beautiful or not, so
absolutely were their senses occupied in reconnoitering its military points, and judging
of its occupation by the enemy. Nor was it very difficult to form a judgment on this
point; for at the first glance they might see a hostile standard hoisted upon the bridge,
and a small guard of horse in foreign uniforms on duty at the gate; while in three different
spots of the more distant champagne, they could distinguish clearly three large and
powerful divisions, evidently each in communication with the others, marching as fast
as possible on Villeneuve.

“Now,” exclaimed Bellechassaigne—“now we may go our ways as hard as we can
gallop, and tell Turenne what we have seen—for here are the advanced guard of the
Lorrainer's horse on the Hyère already; and certainly the rearmost of those three infantry
divisions will be within the town before to-morrow noon—the marechal must
march right rapidly if he means to fight monsieur before he can cross the Seine. So
let us get to horse good friend, and make the best of our way back to Corbeil—we will
halt for an hour or two at the little village where we breakfasted, and we can join the
marechal before daybreak.”

“Hold! hold a moment,” returned Wyvil—“one moment, Bellechassaigne; look
down into the valley yonder—there in that hollow by the holly bushes—just where the
other road comes in, the cross-road from Grosbois, about which you were speaking. Is
it not the same?”

“Yes! yes! but what of that?” asked the young officer. “Ha! by my soul!” he
added, as he turned his eyes to the spot indicated by his comrade, “they are in ambush
there—two—four—six—now by St. Dennis, there are a score of troopers in the thicket
—what in the devil's name can they be waiting for?”

Just as he spoke, however, his question was answered by the appearance of a mounted
servant or avant courier, dressed in a livery of dark blue cloth, splendidly laced with
gold, who wheeled into the main causeway, and turning his horse toward the hill
whereon the partisans were standing, came that way very rapidly without perceiving
the soldiers who were lying in the thicket. A moment or two afterwards one of the
heavy coaches of the day, drawn by six horses with postillions dressed in the same handsome
livery as the courier, came lumbering round the corner of the wood, two stout
armed servants following; one of whom led a charger, equipped with demipique and
holsters and the rich housings of a general officer of the king's party. Scarcely had
the last servant come fully into sight, before the quick flash of a carbine streamed out
of the dark evergreens; and before the sound of the report was borne to the ears of the
young soldiers, the courier, horse and man, fell headlong to the ground, rolling over and
over among the clouds of dust which surged up from the sandy road and for a moment
cut off all view of the scene of action. The rattle of a volley, however, which instantly
succeeded, showed that the cowardly murder which they had seen committed was but
the prelude to worse outrage. As quick as lightning Marmaduke, when he saw the flash
and almost before he could perceive its result, turned round and rushed toward the

horses, waving as he did so to his men to come forward; and they, catching his signal
on the instant, came up so promptly that he was in his saddle before Bellechassaigne
overtook him, though he had followed him in hot anxiety, fearing some deed of rashness
on his part, the moment he observed his movements.

“Are you mad, Wyvil?” he exclaimed—“are you mad? that you think of charging
twenty armed troopers with a handful such as ours—and that too, when the twenty will
be supported within ten minutes by a hundred—and above all, for a matter that concerns
us nothing? By heavens! man, we shall be cut to pieces or made prisoners in
five minutes; and what is worse than that, Turenne will get no tidings of the advance
of these Lorrainers. Tète dieu! it's well he sent me with you, as a curb on your
impetuous valor.”

“By the Lord! but it does concern us, Bellechassaigne,” answered Wyvil hastily;
“did you not see the housings of the charger? There is a general officer of the king's
there—and I doubt nothing it is Sir Henry Oswold, whom Monsieur de Turenne and
our good Duke of York are hourly expecting from Sedan, by Chalons and Collouniers.
I will die with my men or rescue him. Bear you the tidings to Turenne. Forward,
men, gallop!” and, with the word, he dashed his spurs into his horse's side, shook off
Bellechassaigne's grasp which was upon his rein, and followed by his servants, dashed
over the brow of the hill, and thundered down its other slope at a pace which made
itself audible to the ears of his comrade, for a moment at least after he had lost sight
of him. The trooper shook his head, and muttered a few words very bitterly; but he
too mounted, as his horse was led up by his soldiers, and rode through with much caution
and at a slow pace, to the brow beyond which Wyvil had just disappeared. But
that impetuous and daring youth was plunged already into the midst of action, before
his cooler-headed, though no less brave companion, had gained a fair view of his precipitate
fool-hardy onset.

The spot at which the conflict had taken place between the servants and the ambushed
force of the Lorrainers, was a small hollow way that made a deep indenture in
the side of the long sloping hill, about one-fourth of the way between the summit and
the town; and was so situated, that although it was completely overlooked by any
person standing on the brow, it could not be perceived at all by one at the base of the
ascent; so that, as Marmaduke saw at a glance, there was no fear of any reinforcement
coming up from the bridge, unless it should be called for by some fugitive from the
scene of action, and that in this case many minutes must clapse before it could arrive
upon the ground. All this he had considered before he passed the brow of the hill with
his men, so that he was completely free, his plan being matured already, to take note
of everything—the most minute that was occurring, which might tend to the defeat or
success of his intended exploit. The smoke and dust which had obscured the scene,
as he had looked upon it last, had drifted quite away, so that nothing was now hidden
from him, which it was in the least important for him to know or understand. He
could see, therefore, that the firing had not apparently excited any surprise or interest
in the guard at the gates; from which he judged that the whole matter had been carefully
devised beforehand, and the attack made in numbers so overwhelming as must, in
the opinion of the plotters, insure success beyond the possibility of question. And it
had been so far successful; for midway the steep descent, between the summit and the
hollow way, lay the horse of the courier, where it had fallen by the first shot, quite dead
and motionless; while the man, having extricated himself from the carcase, which had
fallen on him, sat by the road-side with his head leaning on his hand, grievously wounded.
Of the two other servants, one was stretched beside the chariot-wheel motionless and
lifeless, with the sword which he had just drawn grasped firmly in his cold right hand—
his fellow leaning against the vehicle, and striving fruitlessly to stanch the blood which
was welling from his side in torrents; two of the horses which had drawn the carriage
had fallen, with their postillions, at the volley, and the rest, their traces having been
cut at the first charge of the Lorrainers, were in the hands of the rude victors. Resistance,
therefore, was completely at an end; for just as Wyvil cast his eyes upon the

scene, he saw a tall and noble-looking man who had sprung sword in hand from the
carriage, and done some execution in the ranks of his opponents, mastered, disarmed,
and bound by some of the ruffians; while others were engaged in ransacking the carriage,
cutting loose the trunks which were fixed to it, and even tearing out the curtains
of rich silk which bedecked its windows. The sight, however, which most inflamed
the fiery blood of Wyvil, was a tall elegant-looking girl, whom, by the splendor of her
dress he could discover, even at that distance, to be a personage of consequence and
rank, struggling madly in the grasp of two or three of the licentious soldiers, who seemed
disposed to treat her with indignity and insult.

“Now, my men,” he exclaimed, as he drew his sword from the scabbard, “out with
your carbines, and when I bid you halt, pour in your fire—every one pick his man,
and see you throw not a shot away—then draw and charge upon the gallop:” and with
the word, he dashed away down the steep hill at the top of his horse's speed. Down
they came; down! all abreast, each with his carbine cocked, and pressed against his
side. “Halt!” and the well trained chargers stood motionless as marble statues, and
the quick firelocks poured forth their streams of glancing fire, Wyvil accompanying the
volley with a pistol shot—and four of the marauders, who, taken somewhat by surprise,
were mounting in hot haste and mustering to meet the onset, fell, either killed outright,
or wounded mortally; their startled horses plunging ungovernably through the field, and
terribly increasing the confusion, as they yerked to and fro with their armed heels,
snorting with rage and terror.

“Charge!” shouted Marmaduke, standing up in his stirrups, and hurling the long-barrelled
pistol which he had just discharged, full into the face of a subaltern officer,
who was in the act of lunging at him with his rapier—“Charge! and strike home!
down with the villains!” the ponderous weapon hurtled through the air, and full
between the eyes, under the peak of his steel morion, smote the Lorrainer! for an
instant he reeled blindly in his stirrups, then pitched headforemost to the earth, and lay
there stunned, and to all appearance lifeless, while Wyvil's bay horse, forced by the
keen spur of the rider, bounded across his prostrate body. One sweep from left to right
of his long broadsword, and one of the stout men, who held the lady, staggered back
with a deep gash in his brow, the blood streaming into his eyes, and leaving him blind
for the moment and quite senseless. His men were close behind him, and for a little
while it seemed that the bold exploit was successful; so greatly had the suddenness
and vigor of the onset paralyzed and subdued the courage of the fierce marauders.
But when they saw the small force of the party that had charged and half defeated
them already, they rallied, and stood to their arms stubbornly; the fellows who had
been engaged in riffing the baggage, leaping down from the roof of the carriage sword
in hand, and the troopers who were yet mounted, bearing down in a body on their
rash assailants. A pistol shot at this critical time, while Marmaduke was cheering
on his men to a fresh charge, took effect in his charger's breast, that he stumbled,
sank on his knees, and despite all the efforts of the cavalier rolled over on his
breast; at the same instant a heavy sword fell like a thunderbolt upon his hat and
cut through to the hair; but turning flatwise in the hand of him who wielded it, the
blade inflicted no wound, though it had nearly beaten him to the earth. But all undaunted
he sprang to his feet again, and repaid the blow by a straight thrust that staggered
his antagonist, although his buff-coat saved him from a wound. Still it was evidently
hopeless; and, though he fought on desperately, striking down trooper after
trooper, and though his servants backed him as if they emulated his example, they were
so thoroughly hemmed in, and overdone by odds, and all of them now wounded, that
it was too apparent, even to the young soldier, that he had but a choice between death
and surrender—when suddenly a clear high voice, heard above all the din, like the
blast of a silver trumpet, struck his ear with a note of joyous tidings.

“France! France! St. Dennis! Bellechassaigne for France!” and with that far-famed
battle cry the daring partisan drove into the melee, sheathed in impenetrable steel, his
horse curveting and bounding, so that each downright blow fell with redoubled force—
three of his men-at-arms cutting their way by dint of mighty prowess after him.

“Stand to it—stand to it—my men,” he shouted, so that the enemy might hear him.
“Stand to it, Wyvil, cheerily—help is at hand—strike out—Seguin is close behind with
thirteen hundred horse.” Already daunted by the fresh charge, the Lorrainers, the
moment that they heard his words, betook themselves to flight, throwing away their
arms and leaving dead and wounded to the kind mercy of the victors. While, to augment
their terror and confusion, Bellechassaigne ordered his men, who had been forced
to charge with their carbines loaded for fear of injuring their friends in the melee, to
give their fire and pursue. “Meantime,” he called to Wyvil, “get these good people
to horse straightway—the lady must ride too, for we shall be pursued ere we can right
the carriage. I go to drive these dogs into the river and terrify them so far as I can:”
and without further parley he drove his spurs into his war-horse, and in a minute was in
advance of all his men, hewing down, riding over, and unmercifully trampling under
foot the scattered and disorganized marauders. Wyvil, who had been hurt in several
places before the timely succor had arrived, and who was beginning to feel faint from
the loss of blood, gazed round him with a slightly vacant air, as though he scarcely
comprehended what was said to him; but at that moment the aged officer whose rescue
he had achieved so gallantly, came forward to address him, saying, “Your friend is
quite right, sir—we have no time for anything, not even for the thanks which you have
won so nobly; for doubtless they will sally from the town forthwith. But, good God!”
he continued, seeing the young man stagger and turning pale—“I fear you are hurt
seriously!” “No! no! not seriously,” Marmaduke answered instantly; “but I am
bleeding fast, and I must get these cuts bound up before I can sit on horseback—and
so I fear must these poor fellows, who all of them are more or less hurt.”

“Oh, if that be the worst, we will soon set all that in order. Here, Isabella,” and
he turned toward his daughter as he spoke, who stood all terrified and trembling in the
midst of the carnage, scarce conscious if she were indeed preserved from outrage—
“here, Isabella, see if you cannot stanch the wounds of this young gentleman who has
so gallantly incurred them for your sake. Take my scarf, girl, he added, unbuckling
his baldric of white taffeta, and bind his left arm tightly—that is the worst cut, I suspect.
Meanwhile, these worthy fellows must look to one another, while I essay to catch
these frightened horses, and to prepare a pillion whereon you may ride until we can
procure some suitable conveyance.”

“We shall do well enough your honour,” replied the man whom Wyvil had called
Adam, and who was hurrying up, having a handkerchief bound tight about his temples,
to assist his master; “we none of us be hurt so badly, but what we could ride fifty
miles if it were needed!”

“Well said, my hearty fellow,” returned the officer in English, for hitherto the whole
conversation had been carried on in the French language; “we are all English here I
fancy, so we had just as well talk in our mother tongue as in their cursed jargon, which
is not fit for anything but their court-apes and popinjays. Come hither quick! the lady
will attend your master better by half than you can—catch you gray charger by the rein
that plunges there so wildly—he is the best of the lot, and belonged to that officer your
master felled so neatly—and as that bay horse which he rode will carry him no more,
he must be mounted as best may be for the moment. Cleverly done! soh! soh!
now pick that pistol up and take its fellow from the dead horse's holster—they are old
friends I warrant them—so now he is equipped and mounted—now what's thy name
good fellow?”

“Adam—sir Henry—Adam Brandon,” the man answered; “and I know your
worship too! sir Henry—I was not far from you at Edgehill—and I saw you—”

“Well, never mind that now,” exclaimed the officer, “but lift up that poor fellow
that lies there bleeding by the wheel;” pointing to the servant who had been standing
up, though sadly wounded, when Marmaduke arrived upon the field.

“Is he dead, Adam?”

“Ay is he, poor lad,” answered the servitor, letting the body down—“ay is he—
dead as a door-nail!”

“Poor fellow!” cried the other in a thick husky voice, while a tear twinkled in his
eye—“poor Lauriston, to fall in such a paltry brawl, after so often—well, well, we've
no time for wailing: so Anthony, I'm glad to see thee safe,” as the third postillion who
had escaped all but some trifling bruises, extricated himself from the fallen horses; “thou
art the only one left whole, of six as faithful fellows—”

“No, no, sir Henry,” the lad interrupted; “old Mathew yonder” and he pointed to
the courier, who was now limping down the hill, “has got off free I believe.”

“Catch him a horse then, boy, and do as much for yourself; we must be stirring presently.”
While he had been thus issuing his orders, attending to and talking of a dozen
different matters, the veteran had arranged a sort of temporary pillion by means of a
cushion from the carriage, attached to the cartle and crupper of his demipique by two
or three stout silken cords which had festooned the curtains of the vehicle; and now
giving the bridle of his own led horse to Brandon, who was already holding the charger
which he had accoutred with Marmaduke's own war-saddle and housings, he strode up
to the spot where his fair child, kneeling among the dead and dying, by the side of her
young preserver, was binding up his wounds with all the tenderness of a sweet gentlewoman,
and almost all the skill of an accomplished surgeon.

That was a singular and striking picture—the evening sun pouring a flood of gorgeous
light over the bright green foliage of the woodlands, and the yellow sand of the road,
which was contrasted fearfully by the broad streaks and puddles of dark gore; the bodies
of the men and horses, who had fallen, all grim and gashed and gory, some dead already
and fast growing cold, some struggling fruitlessly and groaning in their great agony,
hopeless of any succor from the travellers whom they had but now so brutally assaulted
—and in the midst of this wild ghastly medley, the noble figure and superb attire of the
young cavalier, as he sat on a little knoll by the wayside with that soft lovely creature,
so sedulously ministering to his need—for she was very soft indeed, and lovely. It
was not only that the whole contour of her tall finely-moulded person was exquisitely
beautiful, combining all the slender graceful symmetry of girlhood with voluptuous
roundness of feminine maturity—it was not only that every feature of her speaking
face was perfect in its classic outlines, that all the coloring was rich and delicate in its
harmonious blending; but that there was an air of inborn nobleness and worth—an
outflashing of intellect and soul from the full spiritual eye—a music breathing from every
dimple of the smiling mouth—a character and mind that could not, by the most casual
observer, be confounded with aught sensual or common or ignoble, pervading every
varying expression of her lineaments—every small movement of her easy figure.

Yet, beautiful as Isabella Oswald was, her beauty was by no means of an English
style—her hair, which was of an extraordinary length and volume, was perfectly jet
black and glossy as the raven's wings, without one shade of gold or auburn mingled
with their dark tints, and with the slightest tendency to wave or curl that can be fancied;
and there was something oriental in the mode in which she wore it, a broad and massive
braid plaited in many strands, sweeping down over either cheek and looped behind
the small and beautifully formed ears, that suited admirably with the expression of her
features, and the rich sunny coloring—for she was a decided and even dark brunette—
with a clear olive skin through which the mantling blood showed like the ripe blush on
the sunny side of a soft peach—black eyes that flashed at times as if they had been
fraught with liquid fire—and at times melted into that lovely languor that is so seldom
seen except in climes far to the southward of her native land—and a mouth exquisitely
arched and tinged with the most burning crimson. It was on such a face, and such a
form, that Marmaduke, faint from the loss of blood and dizzy from the fierce excitement
of the struggle in which he had been so severely handled, was gazing through his half-shut
lids, scarce conscious of what had happened; when, all the arrangements made
for their departure, Sir Henry drew near the couple.

“How fare you, sir—how fare you now?” he asked, in his hale, hearty tones.

“Well, I trust—well by this! or by the Lord that lives! we shall be taken yet.”
While he was in the act of speaking, the stunning roar of a heavy cannon came crashing

down the wind from the direction of the town, and instantly the clang of bells and
the deep roll of drums, was blent with the alarum of the shrill bugles, calling the garrison
to arms.

“There is no time to lose—no time! To horse, at once! to horse, and away speedily!”
and catching his child by the arm, he swung her to the crupper of his war-horse, and
sprang himself into the saddle with the agility of a young cavalier; while Marmaduke
rose to his feet, somewhat unsteadily, indeed; and, rallying his disordered senses, by a
considerable effort, contrived, by the assistance of his servants, to mount his gray, which
had been furnished with the equipments of his fallen charger. Once in the saddle, he
seemed to gain fresh vigor, and looking with a lively and quick air about him, he made
some brief inquiries concerning what had passed during his faintness, and issued his
commands with promptitude and spirit. His servants, who had already bound up each
other's hurts as well as time and their scant means permitted, together with the courier
and postillion—who alone, of Sir Henry's train, had escaped scatheless—were all on horse
and ready, their fire-arms re-loaded by Wyvil's order, to start upon their hasty route;
and the word was just given to advance, when the hard clang of his furious gallop
announced the partisan; and, closely followed by his men-at-arms, Bellechassaigne
dashed up to the fugitives, all blood from plume to stirrup.

“Get on,” he cried, even before he reached them; “get on, with no more tarrying—
put the hill-top between us and the town, and we shall do well yet, which by the light
of heaven, is more than I expected or even hoped for!”

At his words, fancying some urgent peril close at hand, the little party struck instantly
into a hard trot, which rapidly increasing to a gallop, soon carried them beyond the
summit of the slope, and far into the vale beyond it, before Bellechassaigne could so
far overtake them as to make himself distinctly understood. But as they reached the
bottom of the hollow, he shouted “Halt!” in his sonorous tones, so clearly that all
instantly obeyed the order; and, as they did so, he came up laughing heartily, and in
the highest spirits.

“Here is no need,” he said, “to blow your horses, or to pound that fair lady to a
jelly, by riding thus over these hills like madmen. These coward dogs have made
report that all Turenne's light horse are coming down on them—and as I chased them
so far, that I cut down my last man on the pont leves as they raised it, and did not fall
back till they began firing their ordnance, they have some reason to believe so. Trust
me they will not send a party out, even to reconnoitre, for an hour to come; and as
their march lies not in this direction, for they design to cross the Seine above Charenton,
we have but to keep moving steadily, and my life on it, we shall hear nothing more
of them. So, gently Wyvil, gently, my good friend! and as for you my pretty lady,
we will find a horse-litter or a coach of some kind, wherein you may journey softer
than on that great Bucephalus, ero we have ridden half an hour.” And reassured by
his blunt speech, they rode deliberately on their way, but without losing time; and just
as it was growing dark, they reached the hamlet where they had halted in the morning,
without the slightest interruption.