University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

It was a small and scattered group of houses only, along the margin of a swift
stream which turned the wheel of a little watermill, in the midst of which our party
drew their horses up, just as the glorious summer moon began to show her silver orb
above the tree-tops on the hill, although the richer hues of sunset were still alive among
the cloudlets along the western verge of the horizon—yet small although it was and
humble, it still afforded a neat comfortable inn, and more—a village surgeon of skill
sufficient to replace the rude extemporaneous dressings which had been applied to the
hurts of the sufferers, by bandages and ligatures in order; and of sufficient confidence

in his own skill to assure all his patients that, within two or three days at the farthest,
they would be fit as ever for any martial exercise. Meanwhile, Bellechassaigne, who
had come off entirely unwounded, was all alert, and actively seeing the horses fed and
properly rubbed down, and looking to the preparation of a vehicle, wherein the lady
might accomplish the remainder of her journey more pleasantly than she could do on
horseback. The last was not arranged without some difficulty; and when arranged,
the two-wheeled cariole, springless, and rough, and built of coarse unpainted timber,
presented a wide contrast to the luxurious well-appointed carriage in which she had set
out from Coulonniers that morning. Nevertheless, by piling it with soldiers' cloaks
and other fleecy textures procured from the inn, it was at last made tolerably comfortable;
and, when two strong flect horses had been harnessed to it tandem fashion, to be
driven from the saddle by Sir Henry's own postillion, it promised to unite the qualities
of speed and safety, in a higher degree than could have been expected from its appearance.
These preparations finished, the partisan was summoned by a rosy-cheeked
peasant maiden, to partake of the evening meal; and hastening into the single stonefloored
apartment, which was at once parlor and kitchen to the rustic inn, he found the
board spread with a clear though somewhat coarse cloth, on which were laid four covers,
a huge piece of fresh beef boiled almost to rags, a salad and a loaf of black rye-bread;
a pewter salt-cellar, a bowl of excellent butter, two or three flasks of ordinary
wine, and several tall drinking-glasses, completing the apparatus of the humble meal,
which found however no fastidious sharers in that moment of haste and half-apprehended
danger. But few words had been spoken, as may be well conceived, during the hot
ride hitherward; but now there were a thousand questions to be asked and answered,
that soon led to a quick and animated conversation, and—so true it is, that one short
hour in circumstances of excitement and romantic situation, will produce greater intimacy
than years of ordinary life—ere half an hour had passed, they were all talking
unrestrainedly, as if they had been acquaintances of half a life time's standing.

“Well, be that as it may,” exclaimed Sir Henry after the board was cleared and supper
ended, in reply to some remarks of the young men deprecating any praises or expressions
of high gratitude; “I can assure you, that you have done me no small service;
inasmuch as I happen to be aware of what you probably know nothing—that Monsieur
de Lorranie, had I been so unlucky as to fall into his hands, would in all probability,
though contrary to all the rules of honorable warfare, have held me as a hostage for the
safety of some traitor lord or other, with whom his eminence of Mazarin has in contemplation
to deal somewhat harshly. So that, had you not acted as you did, with
generosity and skill and courage such as I have but seldom seen, the best I could have
looked for would have been close imprisonment, and the worst, six paces and a file of
masketoons, or it might be the block and headsman. And so, sir, as I have told your
friend before,” he continued, addressing Bellechassaigne, who had just risen from his
seat at the table, “it is to you that I owe my life and peradventure my child's honor.”

“Now, by my faith!” returned Bellechassaigne, laughing bluntly, “you are most
grievously mistaken. For all that you owe me, is for striving strenuously to divert this
hot-headed countryman of yours from riding down to help you—but it seems, that he
knew you were expected by his grace of York; and fancied, when he saw the housings
on your charger, that it was you indeed whom the Lorrainers were attacking: or what,
I believe, is the truth, he had some secret instinct that so beautiful a lady was in question
as mademoiselle here—which I entreat you to believe, Sir Henry, had I known
likewise, I would have been beside him in his first onset. But, as it is, I do assure you,
that you have nothing for which to be grateful to me; unless it be for doing all that with
me lay to induce this fair youth, who sets so simply blushing to the roots of his hair, to
ride off toward Corbeil and leave you to your fate.”

“If this be your modesty alone, fair sir,” interrupted Isabella, “you carry it indeed
to a great length, that you would lead us to believe base things of you, whom we have
seen perform such feats of gallantry and daring. When Monsieur de Bellechassaigne
wishes to be believed, in slandering himself, it must be before those who have not seen

him in the field of honor, or profited by his undaunted valor!” She spoke with a
slight degree of excitement in her tones, and her eyes sparkled as she did so with
generous enthusiastic admiration; and at the same time a rich flush—when it flashed on
her mind that she was speaking thus unguardedly to one almost a stranger—rushed like
a torrent over her clear transparent brow.

“Upon my honor! upon the honor of a French gentleman and soldier,” answered
the partisan in an earnest tone, laying his hand upon his heart as he spoke, “dear lady,
you do me at the same time too little and too much justice. Too little when you doubt
the truth of what I have just said; too much when you ascribe the glory of this exploit
in the least point to me. I do assure you, that I not only did my utmost to dissaude
Wyvil from assisting you, but absolutely refused to join with him. It was his own
deed altogether, and you will be disposed to land it even more than you do at present,
when I tell you, that in charging down that hill to your assistance he incurred many a
danger of which you know nothing. Had he failed in his object, and had our party
been cut off and taken, the day that had seen his release would have seen likewise his
military execution for disobedience of orders. That is as certain as that the moon is
shining now into your window—”

“How so? How so?” Sir Henry interrupted him—“who is he, and what orders did
he disobey? You called him, I think, but a while ago my countryman: is not he then
a Frenchman? explain, I pray you. You, I know very well, Sieur Bellechassaigne—by
reputation only, though; for we have never, I think, met before this day: but who is
your companion, to whom by your account we owe so much? I fancied him an officer
in your horse regiment, and knowing you, believed him your subordinate.”

“I am indeed your countryman, Sir Henry,” returned the cavalier; “Marmaduke
Wyvil, late captain in Sir Philip Musgrave's horse at Worcester field, now bearing the
same rank in the most christian monarch's service, but with a staff appointment under
his royal highness, our Duke of York!”

“By heaven!” exclaimed the old man, springing to his feet, and grasping the young
officer's hand warmly—“by heaven! sir, right glad I am to hear it. I honor you, sir,
for your loyalty. We must have fought together on the same side ere this, I fancy—
that is, if you bore arms before the murder of the Royal Martyr. I thank you for your
ready help; I thank you for your valor! Why, girl—why, Isabella; why sit you there
so shy and silent? do not you hear? he is your countryman—one of the northern
Wyvils—an officer of our good king—and now I think of it, you were one of the fifty
gallant spirits who held to the king to the last—ay! after the last too! Where is your
tongue, girl, and your hand for your preserver?”

It would perhaps have puzzled Isabella Oswald, quick as she was of intellect, and
bright at repartee, and used to the great world, had she been called on to explain why
she could speak to Bellechassaigne, and thank him for his gallant aid, with eloquent
tongue and frank unembarrassed manner, looking him in the face the while with bright
unblenching eye—and why, when she would have performed the same easy duty toward
her own countryman, she should have been embarrassed and confused, and scarcely
able to express herself in words at all. She did indeed rise from her seat, and all the
rich color had vanished from her cheek, and her whole frame shook visibly as he raised
her white fingers and pressed them to his lips; and as she faltered forth a few words
of acknowledgment, she almost stammered in the effort; and then, as raising her deep
liquid eyes she met the clear bright glance of Wyvil, seeming to read her very soul, she
blushed—brow, cheeks and neck and bosom—the deepest and most burning crimson;
turned pale again as death upon the instant; staggered, and would have fallen, had not
the young man started to his feet and caught her in his arms, when she was relieved,
as it seemed, from fainting only by bursting into a violent and half convulsive fit of tears
and sobbing. Her father hastening up, Wyvil consigned her to his arms, saying as he
did so—

“It is no wonder! the perils and excitement of the day have been too much for her
—we will retire, and leave the servant girl to aid you—I doubt not but a little rest will
restore her.”

“I trust it will be speedily,” said Bellechassaigne with an anxious brow, “for it is
time even now that we should depart. We were detached to reconnoiter Monsieur de
Lorraine's march, and I know that our report is looked for even now—besides, it is too
probable the enemy will send out their videttes to scout the country, and if so, you
are far too near their quarters to be safe.”

“Oh, I shall soon be better,” answered the fair girl, mastering her confusion as she
spoke; “it was a sudden faintness only that came over me—fetch me I pray you,
Rosalie,” and she turned to the serving maid—“an ewer of fresh water; and by the
time our horses are prepared, trust me, I will be ready.”

“A noble girl,” exclaimed Bellechassaigne, as the door of the kitchen closed behind
them—“a noble girl, and well suited to be a soldier's bride—but, in the fiend's name,
Wyvil, what did you to the girl to scare her wits away?”

“Faith! nothing I, Bellechassaigne,” Marmaduke answered; “not for my life can I
conceive what so much overcame her.”

“Then most assuredly,” replied the Frenchman, “you are one of two things—either
the least observant, or the most modest of mankind. By heaven! if I had such a fortune,
I should not be so long in apprehending it, nor, despardieux! in profiting by it
likewise. A pretty fellow you, to be so able a proficient in the art of warfare, to have
defended indefensible positions, and carried keeps impregnable, and not to see that you
have sapped, almost without an effort, the first defences of a fair lady's heart—make
you but two or three assaults in quick succession, and my life on it! when you call a
parley, she will beat her charade straightway, and offer you a carte blanche in the
bargain.”

“Tush! tush!” said Wyvil with a smile, that denoted how much the jest of his comrade
had gratified his self-complacency, “the thing's impossible, Bellechassaigne—
why, she has hardly heard me speak; scarce even knows my name.”

“I crave your pardon, beau sire,” the soldier answered mockingly; “I knew not
heretofore that it was with men's names fair ladies fell in love—but you are doubtless a
greater adept in these things than I—but jesting apart, Wyvil, she is a most rare beauty
—that deep wild languid eye—that superb hair—that figure so magnificently rounded.
By my soul! I can scarce believe that she is one of your cold half-animated country-women—this
creature of etheriality and fire; she seems to me some passionate romantic
madrileña, or houri of old Mahomet's Elysium—well worth the turning Mussulman to
win, even beyond the grave. Are you not overhead in love with her already? you too,
who have but to thrust out your hand and grasp her—”

“Nonsense,” repeated Wyvil—“nonsense, Belle chassaigne; our English ladies are
not so easy, I assure you, to throw themselves into the arms of the first gentleman that
does them a slight service.”

“Slight service! by my soul! if you call it slight service to charge a score and a
half of well armed troopers, with four ordinary retainers, I should like to know what
you call heavy! Slight service, by the lord! If I had done my duty, and ridden back
to Corbeil, as I ought, with my intelligence, I trow you would have found the consequences
anything but slight, let the service be what it might. As for the rest, I dare
say that she is a trifle prudish; most of your pretty islanders are so—but what then? it
were a poor game at which we should win ever, without check or hindrance. Now
look you, if you mean not to push your conquest, just say so; and I'll fly my hawk at
this fair quarry.”

“Oh, fly it when you will, Bellechassaigne—I have no thought, I do assure you, of
adventuring, though she is as you say very beautiful; and for that matter, if I had,
would it avail me anything, I fancy; so far at least as aught has yet occurred to aid
me. But we had better make our men bring out our horses—we shall have sharp work
yet to join the army before daybreak. I doubt not the fair Isabella has rallied her
composure before this;” and almost as he spoke the words a servant followed them out
from the inn toward the stable-yard, whither they had turned at the suggestion, and told
them that the lady and Sir Harry were quite prepared to set forth on the route, so soon
as all should be made ready.

“Sound them to horse!” Bellechassaigne cried. “To horse—to horse! it is nine
by the night already; and we have leagues to ride ere daybreak.”

The bugle instantly sent forth its long, clear summons, waking a thousand echoes
through the still evening; and with its first note the ready soldiery came forth, leading
their chargers orderly, and mounted and fell in; while Wyvil and Bellechassaigne aided
the lady to ascend her rude conveyance, and then sprang to their saddles.

“Pardon me, gentle lady,” said the Frenchman, bowing as he spoke till his tall
plume was almost blended with the tresses of his charger's mane—“pardon me, that I
use so rude a word as must; but we must travel fast to-night—as fast in fact, as our
steeds will carry us. Sir Henry will accompany your carriage with his chasseur, while
Captain Wyvil with his servants will scour the road in front and clear all obstacles
away; and I, with my four troopers, as the best armed, will follow you in the rear and
cover you. Only remember this, and now I speak to you, good comrade mine, should
you hear any noise or tumult in the rear, ride on as best you may, and bear our tidings
to the marechal; any attempt to aid me would destroy not only yourself alone, but the
whole army—the whole cause indeed of the king! and so God speed ye, and set on!”

The eyes of Marmaduke turned half-reluctantly at the fair face of Isabella Oswald,
lighted up as it was by the bright lustre of the summer moon, and caught a sidelong
glance from hers, which were, however, instantly averted; and for a moment he appeared
to hesitate, but before any one could comment on his seeming indecision, he too
bowed low, and turning his horse's head down the road, led the way, followed by his
servants at a swift regular hard gallop. All night they rode at a sharp steady pace,
pausing twice only to breathe their horses by some lone well-head or clear streamlet,
hearing from time to time the rumbling sound of the rude calash which bore the lady,
far behind them; but never halting so long as to suffer it to overtake them. They met
no opposition on the route—in fact no human being, whether friend or foe, crossed their
path as they hurried onward; and, save a stray wolf from the neighboring forest of
Senars, no living creature, until, just as the moon was setting, a sentinel by the wayside
levelled his arquebus, and called on them to stand, and give the countersign.

“Turenne—Turenne!” cried Wyvil, and dashing on, scarce stopping to return the
deep salute of the fautassin, entered the streets of Corbeil, and halted in the market-place
amid the earliest crowing of the awakened cocks.

Wild thoughts had flitted through the brain of Wyvil during that hurried ride—wild
whirling passionate fancies! Hard would it be indeed to shadow forth the thick tumultuous
images, which rushed in like an entering tide, and filled his whole mind for a
space, and were in turn displaced by a fresh sweep of conflicting feelings—for it assuredly
would have been beyond his power, himself to account for or explain them. The
past, the present, and the future—gratitude, honor, love! sudden an almost overwhelming
passion! ambition, avarice, and above all, the lust of power—were all at once
fiercely striving in his bosom. The words of Bellechassaigne had, like the puissant
spells of a magician, called forth a host of demons, that would not now be laid to rest
by any effort of the mind which they tormented. A passionate admirer of all female
loveliness, Wyvil had been much struck at first sight by the extreme beauty of Isabella
Oswald; and there was something in the romantic nature of the accident which had
brought them acquainted—in the close contact into which they had been thrown while
she dressed the wound incurred for her sake—in the mixture of sudden familiarity with
conscious bashfulness—that added much to the effect of her charms on the fancy of
Marmaduke. For it was, indeed, but his fancy that had been touched, and that very
slightly, when, by the chance words of the partisan a far more dangerous and subtle
element of his disposition was started into action. Wyvil's besetting weakness—for in
him, though it often led to good, oftener perhaps than to evil, it was a crying weakness—
was vanity. The vanity of being first in all things—vanity, not ambition! though
casual observers would designate it—though he himself would fain have palliated it to
himself—have dignified it by the title of that far higher and more potent passion. It is
true, that it led often to the same results in Wyvil to which ambition would have led a

man of sterner nature. But he had nothing of the Cato in his mood—he never would
have chosen the essc, quam videri bonus—his leading object, his first aim, was ever to
shine prominent, to be the present wonder filling the mouths of men—to be held brave,
or elegant, or fortunate, even though he himself knew the falsehood of the world's
opinion.

This was indeed the one great flaw in Wyvil's character; and though it was associated
with many a high and noble quality—though he had that fine sense of innate
honor, that he would have spurned indignantly from his soul the mere suggestion of
aught base or sordid—though he was brave, even to headlong rashness—though his
heart was kind, and good, and full of noble impulses and holy aspirations—though his
head was in other respects strong, clear, and capable of judgment—yet this one failing
went far, like an alloy of copper with fine gold, to corrupt and debase, and render nugatory
those admirable sterling qualities, of which he was undoubtedly the master. And
now, although he certainly loved Alice Selby with all the strength and truth of which
his wild and somewhat vacillating character was capable—although he would have
scorned and loathed himself, if he could at that time have even momentarily contemplated
the desertion of her to whom he owed so much—although he would have spat
upon the man, who would have counselled him to do her any wrong—although, above
all, he cared not even in his fancy, beyond the moment's passing admiration, for Isabella
Oswald; Bellechassaigne's words had wrought upon that solitary weakness, and kindled
it into quick action. A bright triumphant vision of winning that high beauty, for
whom, as fame had bruited it abroad, already half the gallants of Paris were vainly
sighing—of being signalized through the gay court of France as the conqueror of that
impregnable and cruel heart—of being the possessor of the most brilliant bride in all
that land of beauty—of riding as it were unchallenged, unresisted, and at a coup de
main, into the strong hold of that cold and haughty maid's affections—flashed vivid and
impetuous as the lightning, across the mirror of his fancy.

True; it was instantly driven out, discarded, by a strong impulse of the better nature
which was yet strong within him—true; it was with a sense of shame and self-reproach,
that he became conscious on the instant that his heart had swerved for a second's space
from its fealty to sweet Alice Selby—true; it was some time ere the finer feeling lost
its power, ere memory—the memory of the calm pure affections of that fair gentle girl,
of her heroic self-devotion, of her deep fervent feminine love faded from his mind—but
no less true! it did fade. It did fade, and the more dazzling charms of the superb
court beauty replaced the image of the country maiden. Again indignant conscience
rallied its forces, but it was only by a stronger effort than before, only by summoning
his sense of gratitude, his sense of honor to its aid, that his heart once again was won
back to its allegiance. And so, throughout that long and hasty ride, his mind could be
likened only to a confused and whirling battlefield, where the fierce hosts of the tumultuous
and fiery passions were mustering fast and thick to the attack of principle and
virtue; and when repulsed time after time, banding anew their scattered legions, and
summoning at each fresh charge fresh and more foul allies to aid in their fell onslaught.
Such conflicts are, alas! but of too frequent and familiar occurrence to create anything
of wonder, or even of much interest in the mind of every-day observers; but it is from
them only, that the keen judge of human nature derives his intimate acquaintance with
the individual heart of man, with the general heart of the world—it is from a deep and
continued study of them only, that we can learn the sage's hardest and last lesson:
“the knowledge of ourselves.”

The minds of all—the best of us, no less than the worst, are subject to these rude
assaults—these violent temptations; the minds of all, even the best, at times succumb
to the assault; the minds of all, even the worst, at times resist their tempters. But it
must be observed, that in the species of resistance there is a broad distinction; there is
a steady, resolute, and organized resistance, the consequence of the exertion of thoughts
influenced by principle—a resistance which, when it has repulsed the first attack of its
insidious foes, though possibly it may carelessly relax from its first vigor, and so be liable

to surprise, is nothing weakened in itself, but can at any moment rally and drive back
its assailants; which from their very nature are more disorganized and scattered at every
subsequent repulse, until they in the end become entirely weak, and frustrated, and
powerless for evil. There is, again, a quick and flery, though unstable and irresolute
resistance, the child of a mind acting ever upon the impulse—which, though it may
beat back the first onslaught of evil passions, nevertheless retains a recollection of the
strife, receives as it were, an impression from the shock; and, when again attacked in
the same weakened point of its position, though it again comes off victorious, is still so
much enfeebled by its own irregular and impulsive opposition, that each succeeding
victory but renders it the less unable to resist—but fires the daring of its enemy, until
its whole defences sapped, the heart of its lines carried, it yields at last ignobly; and
surrenders, as it were at discretion, to foes who, foiled often, have gathered strength
and purpose less from their innate qualities, than from the defects of the system that
pretended to confront them. Such, during all that night, had been the state of Wyvil's
mind, harassed and agitated by a continual occurrence of thoughts and half-formed
wishes which, while he felt them to be evil, and exerted himself from time to time to
beat them back and banish them, he yet lacked the steady energy of will to repress
utterly, and crush, as it were, in the bud.

The consequence of this with him, as it must naturally be in every case, was that
the mind became habituated by constant repetition to suggestions from which at first it
shrunk abhorrent; and that, although he would not have admitted it, he became half
familiarized with the idea of forsaking Alice Selby, even before he had in reality at all
contemplated doing so. He was in some sort then bewildered still and confused of
mind, when he halted his party, a little while before daybreak, in the market-place,
ignorant what to do, or whither to direct his course, until Bellechassaigne should come
up; for he had never been in Corbeil before, except to pass through it at a trot on his
outward march the previous morning. He had not been there, however, many minutes,
before he found himself surrounded by a dozen or more privates and non-commissioned
officers belonging to a troop of royal horse, which had been quartered there some time
in order to command the passage of the Seine, and insure the advance or retreat of the
king's army. From these he had already learned that good accommodations could be
obtained at an inn in the rue royale, known as the lion d'or, when the rude vehicle
came up creaking and groaning over the rugged pavement, escorted by the daring partisan
and his bold troopers; so that as soon as they came into sight he merely waved
his hand to them to follow, and led the way to the great gates of the inn-yard, where
he was standing when they overtook him, thundering with his dagger's hilt upon the
oaken portals, though seemingly with no effect except to wake a thousand echoes
through the deserted streets, and to excite the furious baying of one or two gaunt half-starved
mastiffs which were chained within the courtyard. On the arrival of Bellechassaigne,
however, all this was speedily corrected; for at his order the bugler of his
party set up so loud and long a call of his shrill instrument, that half a dozen casements
were speedily thrown open in as many different houses, and sundry male and female
heads, clad in strange night-gear, suddenly protruded to lean the cause of the disturbance.
A moment afterwards, a shuffling stop was heard within the gates, and after
reconnoitering the company for half a minute through the grille, despite the oaths and
objurgations of the angry soldier, the slipshod hostler unbarred the leaves, yawning and
rubbing his half-open eyes, and ushered them into the bass-court of what had been at
some time, before it was degraded into a house of public entertainment, the mansion
of some rich proprietor. Here they were met by the portly landlord, profuse, though
scarce awake, of promises of entertainment and apologies for their detention; and here,
having assured their fair charge that she was in absolute security, Corbeil being in possession
of a strong royal garrison, the young men took their leave, amid the unfeigned
thanks and warm acknowledgments, no less of Sir Henry than of the lady.

“Rest sure, Sir Henry Oswald,” were the last words of Bellechassaigne, “that you
will advance yourself nothing by moving any farther on this route, even when the day

breaks. The army, I am certain, is on the route already hitherward; and as the tidings
which I carry will only expedite their progress, you may depend on seeing the marechal
here before the day is six hours older. If then you will be ruled by my poor counsel,
you will remain here till the post comes up, and obtain such repose as the fatigues and
apprehensions of this fair lady must render indispensable.”

“I will, sir,” cried Sir Henry—“I will; and that right willingly—and now I will not
bid you tarry, as knowing that the first duty of a soldier is the prompt execution of his
orders; and trust me, you shall lose nothing with Monsieur Turenne, for your service;
and now farewell for a short space, seeing we shall soon meet again.” And then, their
parting salutation made on both sides, the cavaliers rode off as hard as they could
gallop, Bellechassaigne calling out to Wyvil with a light laugh—

“Despardieux! but I am not half so certain as the good English chevalier, that our
service shall seem so good to the marechal as he deems it. Seeing that it was his aim
to surprise the Duke of Lorraine, it may well be, that he will scarce thank us for beating
up his quarters, and telling him, as plain as we could speak, that all the army, which
I'll be sworn he fancied at Etampes, was on this side of the Seine. I should not be
surprised, for my part, if we were both ordered into arrest directly; and, if it take that
turn, our lives will depend on the good or bad generalship of the Lorrainers!”

“I see not that, however,” answered the Englishman, spurring his horse sharply as
as he spoke, to keep up with his volatile companion; “what the devil has the duke's
generalship to do with it?”

“You are less apprehensive than your wont, then,” replied the partisan. “See you
here—you know well that Conde has been building, these two weeks, a bridge of boats
a little above Charenton, whereby Henry of Lorraine may pass the Seine and join the
army of the princes. Now, seeing that the duke heard of our onslaught last night
before sunset, and must be sure from that of Turenne's movement to cut him off from
Paris; if he has acted with the smallest judgment, he is before this time at Charenton:
and before we have crossed the river, here at Corbeil to the eastward, will have made
good his passage to the westward, and broken up his bridge and joined the princes at
his leisure. That, as you know, will utterly foil all our plans for the campaign; will
leave us in the face of a superior force; will probably completely ruin the king's cause;
and, what concerns us most of all, will be the consequence of our misconduct, and will
afford a very pretty pretext for treating each of us to a file of musqueteers, and a volley
at twelve paces. So now you begin, I suppose, to apprehend how far it concerns us
whether the Duke of Lorraine be a good general or a bad one!”

“You take it coolly enough, notwithstanding;” exclaimed Wyvil, not altogether
liking his companion's mode of putting the case.

“Of course I do,” answered the other laughing; “why should I not, pray? You
would think it very odd, if I were not cool in contemplating the result of a volley
from five or six hundred Spaniards or Lorrainers; and I have yet to learn that a score
or two of Spanish bullets do less harm than a dozen French ones. Tush! man, our
business is to die when we are wanted; and what odds does it make whether it comes
by a platoon in battle, or by a file in execution? There is this in it, notwithstanding,
that the faster we ride the less the chance of being shot by Frenchmen, and the more
by the Lorrainers. So if you, as you seem to do, prefer these last so much, you were
best spur that gray brute somewhat sharply. Dont let him tumble on his head, though,”
he continued, as the horse, urged beyond his speed, made a bad stumble on the rutty
road—“well saved! well saved! You English do ride well, that must be granted—
and lo! here is the Seine and the bridge, and there comes the sun above the tree-tops.
Hark! hark! by heaven! there go the trumpets; and see—see there, how the dust
surges up beyond the hill—we shall soon leave the worst of it!” and galloping violently
on, they soon encountered the advanced horse of the royal army, and in less than an
hour were busily employed in threading their way through the dense columns of the
centre, now in full march upon Corbeil, in search of their renowned commander.