The Invasion; Or, Yegof The Fool.
Chapter IX.
The farm-house presented a bustling scene when Jean-Claude, Doctor Lorquin, and the others arrived. The kitchen-fire had been blazing since day-break, and old Duchêne was drawing from the oven innumerable loaves of bread, the fresh, crisp odor of which filled the whole house. Annette piled them in heaps beside the hearth, Louise waited upon the guests, and Catherine saw to everything.
Hullin, from his seat, gazed at his old cousin.
"What a woman she is!" he muttered. "She forgets nothing. Comrades," he exclaimed, "to Catherine Lefevre's health!"
"To Catherine's health!" cried the others; and the glasses clinked in the midst of discussions on battles, attacks, defences, and retreats. Every one was full of cheerful confidence; every one declared that all would go well.
But heaven had still a joy reserved for that day—especially for Louise and Mother Lefevre. Toward noon, when the bright sunshine sparkled on the snow and melted the frost upon the window-panes, old Yohan, the toothless and almost blind watchdog, began to bay so joyously that all present stopped talking, and listened.
"What can it mean?" thought Catherine. "Since my boy's departure Yohan has not barked like that."
Swift steps were heard crossing the yard; Louise sprang to the door; a soldier appeared on the threshold—but a soldier so worn, thin, weary, and ragged—his old grey great-coat so torn, his canvas gaiters so tattered, that a murmur of pity ran from mouth to mouth.
He seemed unable to go a step further, and slowly placed the butt of his musket upon the ground; his face was the color of bronze, but his unkempt moustaches trembled, his cheeks grew pale beneath their brown skin, and his hollow eyes filled with tears when he gazed on the party within.
Without, the old dog barked, whined, and tugged at his chain; within, you could hear the fire crackle in the deep silence. But in a moment Catherine had rushed forward, and was hanging upon the soldier's neck.
"Gaspard! Gaspard! my boy!" she cried, while the tears burst from her eyes.
"Yes, mother!" he replied, in a voice choked by a sob.
Then Louise sobbed too, and then the whole kitchen was filled with voices. Gaspard's name was on every tongue, and every hand was stretched forth to clasp his.
But the mother would not yet give up her son; the woman, a moment before so strong, so brave, so resolute, still hung weeping upon his neck, his brown hair mingling with her grey locks, as he murmured:
"Mother! mother! how often have I thought of this meeting! But where is Louise?" he said. "I thought I saw her."
And then Louise ran forward, blushing, while she exclaimed:
"I knew it was Gaspard! I knew him by his step!" And old Duchene, twirling his cotton cap in his hand, muttered:
"Great heaven Is that my poor child in such a plight?"
He had taken care of Gaspard from infancy, and, since his departure, had always imagined him fresh and stout, in a fine blue uniform with red facings. He struggled to collect his ideas so rudely scattered.
But his friends surrounded the young soldier; his musket, his shako, his knapsack, and his belts were merrily captured, and at last old Hullin cried, with moist eyes:
"Poor Gaspard! How glad I am to see you safe and sound! Ha! ha!" he continued, trying hard to laugh, "I would rather, though, see you as you are than with the fat, round cheeks you took away with you. You are a man now; you remind me of the old days of the Sambre and of Egypt. Ha! ha! ha! our noses were sharp enough then, my boy; and our teeth were long and sharp too."
"Yes, yes; I know what that means, Father Jean-Claude; but let us sit down and talk. What is going on? What brings you all to the farm?"
"Have you not heard? All the country is in arms, from La Houpe to Saint-Sauveur, and I am commander-in-chief."
"Hurrah! Then the Kaiserlik beggars sha'n't find a road here so easily. But pass me the knife. That ham is not yet finished. Sit by me, Louise, and help me to the bread. A few days like this would soon make my bones grow smaller. They wouldn't know me in the company."
All wondered at the speed with which the provisions disappeared. The soldier's eyes often turned to his mother and Louise, and he smiled sadly as he gazed upon them; but all this was without losing time in his attack. The poor fellow was well-nigh famished, and old Duchene muttered, as he looked at him:
"Great heaven! No wonder that so many die of want!"
"But tell us, Gaspard," said Hullin, "without interrupting your breakfast, how comes it that you are here? We thought you on the banks of the Rhine, near Strasbourg."
"Aha! I understand you," replied Gaspard, with a knowing wink of the eye; "you mean that there are a good many deserters running about, don't you?"
"Such an idea in regard to you never struck me, and yet—"
"You would not be sorry to know that I am all right. Well, Father Jean-Claude, you are right; for whoever runs from roll-call when the Kaiserliks are in France, deserves to be shot. But look here."
Hullin took a paper which the young man held out to him and read:
"Twenty-four hours' leave is given
to the grenadier Gaspard Lefevre.
January 3d, 1814.
Gemeau,
Chief of Battalion."
"Very good," said the old man; "put it in your knapsack; you might lose it. You see, my friends," he continued gayly, "I know all about this thing called love. It is very good and very bad, but particularly bad for young soldiers who happen to be near their village after a campaign. They sometimes forget themselves and return to camp with three or four gendarmes showing them the way. I have seen it once or twice. But, now, as everything is in order, let us drink a glass to Gaspard's health. What say you, Catherine? The men from the Sarre may be here any moment, so we have no time to lose."
"You are right, Jean-Claude," replied the old woman sadly. "Annette, go to the cellar and bring three bottles here! But your leave, Gaspard," she asked; "how long does it last?"
"I received it last night at eight o'clock at Vasselonne. The regiment is retreating on Lorraine, and I must rejoin it this evening at Phalsbourg."
"Then you have yet seven hours before you; you will only need six to reach there, although there is much snow on Foxthal."
The good woman sat by her son; her heart beat painfully; she could not conceal her trouble. Louise leaned on Gaspard's worn-out epaulette and sobbed. Hullin bent his brows, but said nothing until the bottles arrived and the glasses were filled.
"Come, come, Louise!" he cried, "Courage! These wars cannot last for ever; they must end one way or the other; and then Gaspard will return, and we shall have a merry wedding of it."
He filled up the glasses, and Catherine dried her eyes, muttering, however, as she did so:
"And to think that those robbers are the cause of all this! But let them come! They will rue it."
The old wine, however, cheered all, and Gaspard told the story of Bautzen, Lutzen, Leipsic, and Hanau, where conscripts fought like veterans, winning victory after victory until treason ruined all.
Every one listened in silence. Jean-Claude's eyes flashed as he heard how rivers were forded and crossed amid storms of shells and bullets; how batteries were carried by the bayonet alone; and how hussars and cossacks were hurled back from the steady squares. The doctor inquired particularly about the positions of the field-hospitals; Materne and his sons bent forward with ears erect, and lips pressed tight together, fearing to lose a word; Catherine looked with pride upon a son who had borne a part in scenes over which ages will grieve or rejoice; and the ardor of all present mounted to the highest pitch as more than one muttered that the end was not yet.
At length the hour for Gaspard's departure arrived. He arose, but when Louise clung to his neck and with sobs implored him to stay, the color left his cheeks.
"I am a soldier," he said; "my name is Gaspard Lefevre; I love thee a thousand times better than my life; but I must not disgrace that name."
He unclasped her arms, and Hullin tore them apart.
"Well said!" cried the old sabot-maker; "and spoken as a man should speak."
Catherine buckled the knapsack on her son's back; she did so calmly, but her brows were knitted, and she tried hard to press her quivering lips tightly together, while two great tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks.
"Go—go—my child," she sobbed, "and take your mother's blessing with you, and if it should be the will of God that—that—"
But the poor woman's stout heart could sustain her no longer; she burst into an agony of weeping. Gaspard seized his musket, and, covering his eyes with his hand, rushed from the house.
All this while the men from the Sarre with picks and their axes were making their way up along the Valtin path. The sounds of their voices could already be heard, as they laughed and jested as if on the way to a festival, and not to privation, danger, and death.
Chapter X.
But while Hullin and his mountaineers were thus preparing for battle, where was the tin-crowned King of Diamonds—Yegof the Fool? Wandering barefoot over the snow-covered paths, his breast open to the cutting winds, cold, hungry, and companionless, save for his grim friend the raven.
Night was approaching, the cold growing keener and keener; even the fox seemed to shiver as he pursued his unseen prey, and the famished birds of prey had hidden themselves in the rocky nooks of the mountains. But the fool, his raven upon his shoulder, kept on—on—talking to himself, gesticulating wildly, from Holderloch to Sonneberg, from Sonneberg to Blutfeld.
And that very night, Robin, the old herdsman of Bois-de-Chênes, saw a strange and fearful sight.
A few days before, having been surprised by the snows at the bottom of the gorge of Blutfeld, he left his wagon behind him and drove home the cattle, but finding upon his arrival that he had forgotten his sheep-skin cloak, he started at about four o'clock that evening to seek it.
Blutfeld is a narrow gorge between Schneeberg and Grosmann, bordered by pointed rocks. A thread of water winds its way through the valley, in summer and winter, and on its sides, among the grey rocks, spots of good pasturage are found: but the place is rarely visited; something weird and ghostly seems to hang over it, and the cold, white light of a winter's moon serves to intensify its sinister aspect. Tradition says that here was fought a great battle between the Triboci and the Germans, who, under a chief named Luitprandt, attempted to penetrate into Gaul. It tells how the Triboci from the peaks around flung huge stones upon their foes, crushing them by thousands, and that from the frightful carnage the defile derived its name—Blutfeld the field of blood. Rusted spearheads, broken helmets, and cross-handled swords two ells in length are yet found there.
At night, when the moonlight falls upon the snow-covered rocks, when the wind whistles through the bare bushes, the cries of the surprised Germans seem borne upon the air, mingled with the wailing of their women and the neighing of steeds, and the rattling of chariots through the defile. The Triboci ceased not from the slaughter for two entire days, and on the third they retired to their homes, every man bending beneath the weight of his booty.
Such was the legend of the gorge which Robin reached just as the moon was rising.
The good man had a hundred times descended to its depths, but never had it seemed so bright or so ghastly. His wagon, at the bottom, seemed one of those masses of rock under which the invaders were crushed. It stood at the entrance of the valley, behind a thick clump of bushes, and the little stream dashed along by it, flashing like a thousand swords. The old herdsman soon found his cloak and an old hatchet too, which he had regarded as lost; but, when he turned to depart, his blood ran cold.
A tall figure was advancing straight toward him. Behind it followed five grey wolves, two full-grown and three young. He recognized Yegof, and at first thought the wolves were dogs. They followed the fool step by step, but he seemed not to see them; his raven flew about, now in the clear moonlight, now in the dark shadows of the rocks; the wolves, with glittering eyes, sniffed the air as if scenting their prey. The fool lifted his sceptre.
Robin darted like a flash into his wagon unobserved. Yegof advanced down the valley as if walking some great castle-hall, and the raven with glittering black plumage flew to the branch of a dead tree near by, and there perched, and seemed to listen.
It was a strange scene, Robin thought. If the fool slipped, if he fell, there was an end of him; the wolves would instantly devour him.
But in the middle of the gorge, Yegof turned and sat down upon a stone, and the five wolves sat around him in the snow.
Then the fool, raising his sceptre, addressed them, calling each one by name, and they replied with mournful howlings.
"Ha, child, Bléed, Merweg, and you, my old Siramar," he cried, "here we are once more together! You have grown fat; you have had good cheer in Germany, have you not?"
Stretching his arm, after a moment's pause, over the moonlit valley, he continued:
"Remember ye not the great battle?"
One of the wolves howled plaintively as if in reply; then another, and at last all five together.
This lasted full ten minutes, the raven the while sitting motionless on its withered branch. Robin would have fled, but dared not.
Still the wolves howled, and the echoes of Blutfeld replied to their chorus, until at last the largest ceased, and the rest followed his example. Yegof spoke again:
"Ay; 'tis a sorrowful story. There runs the stream that overflowed with our blood; but others fell too, and for three days and three nights their women tore their hair. But how the accursed dogs triumphed in their victory!"
The fool seized his crown and dashed it upon the ground; then, sighing, stooped and placed it again upon his head. The wolves sat as if listening attentively, and the largest again howled mournfully.
"Thou art hungry, Siramar," said Yegof, as if replying to him; "but rejoice; flesh will soon be yours in plenty; the battle will again be fought. Our war-cry was long hushed, but the hour is near, and it will again shake these mountains, and you shall again be warriors; you shall again own these valleys. The air is full of the shrieks of women, of the flashing of swords, the creaking of wagons. They rushed down upon us and we were surrounded; your bones sleep here on every side, but your children are coming; rejoice!' sing, sing!"
And he himself began to howl like a wolf, and his hearers took up the savage strain.
These cries, growing every moment more horrible, the reverberating echoes, the motionless rocks, white and ghastly, or buried in blackness and gloom, the bare branches bending beneath their load of snow—all filled the old herdsman with speechless horror.
But the scene soon ended. Yegof spoke no more, but moved slowly with his strange train toward Hazlach, and the raven, uttering a hoarse cry, spread its sable wings and followed through the dark blue air.
All disappeared like a dream, but for a long time Robin could hear the howling growing fainter and further away. It had, however, ceased for nearly half an hour, and the silence of a winter night taken its place, before the good man dared leave his wagon, and make at his best speed for the farm-house.
Arriving at Bois-de-Chênes he found every one excited and busy. They were about killing an ox for the Donon men, and Hullin, Doctor Lorquin, and Louise had departed with those from the Sarre. Catherine was having her great four-horse wagon loaded with bread, meat, and brandy, and all were busy in the preparations.
Robin would not tell any one of his adventure. It seemed, even to himself, so incredible that he dared not speak of it. The whole affair puzzled him sorely, and it was not until he was lying in his crib in the stable that he concluded that Yegof had some time or other captured and tamed a litter of wolves, to whom he uttered his folly as men sometimes speak to their dogs; but the rencounter left a superstitious dread in his mind, and even years after, the honest old man could not speak of it without a shudder.
Chapter XI.
All Hullin's orders had been carried out. The defiles of Zorn and of the Sarre were securely guarded, and that of Blanru, the extreme point of their position, had been placed in a state of defence by Jean-Claude himself and the three hundred men who formed his principal force.
Thither, on the eastern slope of Donon, near Grandfontaine, must we wend our way.
Above the main road, which winds up the mountain for two thirds of its height, might be seen a farm-house, surrounded by a few acres of cultivated land—a large flat-roofed building, belonging to Pelsly, the Anabaptist. The stables and barn were behind, toward the summit of the mountain.
Here was the camp of our partisans. Beneath them lay Grandfontaine and Framont, locked in a narrow ravine; further on, at a turn of the valley, was Shirmeck, with its piles of feudal ruins; still further La Bruche stretched onward into the grey mists of Alsace. To their left rose the sterile peak of Donon, covered with huge rocks and a few stunted firs. Before them lay the road, made impassable by the wearing away of the earth caused by the melting snow, and by huge trees, with all their branches on, thrown across it.
It was a scene of stern grandeur. Not a living thing appeared on all the long road; the country seemed a desert, and only a few scattered fires, sending their long wreaths of smoke toward the sky, showed the position of the bivouac.
For three days had the mountaineers been awaiting the enemy, and the delay had told not a little upon their ardor. When, therefore, at about eight in the morning, the sentinels descried a man coming toward them, waving his hat, expectation at once stood on tiptoe, and messengers were at once despatched for Hullin, who since one o'clock had been sleeping in the farm-house, on a wide mattress, side by side with Doctor Lorquin and his dog Pluto.
The cause of the commotion was Nickel Bentz, the old forester of La Houpe, and Hullin at once saluted him with—
"Well, Nickel, what tidings?"
"Nothing, master Jean-Claude, save that toward Phalsbourg there is a noise as of a storm. Labarbe says it is artillery; for all night long we saw flashes like lightning in the wood of Hildehouse, and this morning the plain is covered with grey clouds."
"The city is attacked!" exclaimed Hullin; "but from the Lutzelstein side. They are trying to cut it off. The allies are there; Alsace is overrun."
Then turning to Materne, who stood behind him, he added,
"We can remain no longer in uncertainty. Make a reconnoissance with your two sons."
The old hunter's face lighted up.
"Good!" he cried. "We will have a chance to stretch our legs and bring down an Austrian or Cossack or two before we return."
"Steady, my friend," said Jean-Claude sternly; "you must not think of bringing down Cossacks, but only of observing what is going on. Frantz and Kasper will be armed, but you will leave your rifle, and powder-horn, and hunting-knife here."
"Leave my arms here, Jean-Claude! And why?"
"Because you must go into the villages; and if you are caught there armed, you would be shot at once."
"Shot?"
"Yes, shot. We are not regular troops; they will not make prisoners of us; we can expect no quarter. You will follow the Shirmeck road, and your sons will follow you in the copse, half a rifle-shot off. If any marauders should attack you, they will come to your aid; but if a detachment meet you, they will let you be taken."
"Let me be taken!" cried the old man indignantly. "I would like to see them do so."
"Obey orders, Materne. An unarmed man will be released; an armed one shot. I need not tell you not to let those Germans know you come as a spy."
"I understand, Jean-Claude, and although I never parted yet with my rifle, you may take it, and my horn and knife. Who will lend me a blouse and staff?"
Nickel Bentz pulled off his blue smock-frock and hat, and passed them to the old man; and when he had donned them, no one would imagine the old hunter to be other than a simple peasant of the mountains.
His two sons, proud to be selected for such an expedition, reprimed their pieces, fixed their long, straight, wild-boar bayonets, and tried their hunting-knives in the sheaths; then, assured that everything was in proper order, they turned to go, their eyes sparkling with pleasure.
"Do not forget Jean-Claude's words," said Doctor Lorquin; "a German more or less makes little difference among a hundred thousand, but we should find it difficult to replace you."
"Fear nothing, doctor," replied old Materne. "My boys are hunters, and know how to bide their time, and profit by any chance that offers. And now, forward; we must be back before night."
Chapter XII.
Materne and his sons pursued their way for a long distance in silence. The weather was fine; the winter sun shone on the dazzling snow without thawing it, so that the path was firm and solid. Afar off, in the valley, the tall firs, pointed rocks, and the roofs of the houses, with their hanging icicles and little glittering windows and steep gables, were sharply outlined in the clear air, and in the street of Grandfontaine they could see a troop of young girls around the wash-house, and a few old men in cotton caps smoking their pipes at their cottage doors; but of all the busy life so plainly seen, not a sound reached their ears.
The old hunter halted at the edge of the wood, saying:
"I will go down to the village, to Dubreuil's, the keeper of the Pine-Cone."
He pointed with his staff to a long white building, with doors and windows surrounded by a yellow border, and a pine branch hanging from the wall by way of sign.
"Wait for me here," said the old man, "unless I come to the door and raise my hat, when you may follow, and take a glass of wine with me."
He descended the snow-covered mountain-side, gained the plain, and crossed the village common, and his two boys, resting upon their pieces, saw him enter the inn. A few moments after, he reappeared on the threshold and raised his hat. Fifteen minutes after, they had rejoined their father in the large hall of the Pine-Cone—a long, low room, warmed by a huge stove on the sanded floor.
Except for the presence of the innkeeper, Dubreuil, the fattest and most apoplectic man in the Vosges, with little round eyes, a flat nose, and a triple chin falling upon his breast—except, I say, for the presence of this redoubtable personage, who was sitting in a large arm-chair near the fire, Materne found himself alone when he entered the inn. He ordered the glasses filled as the old clock struck nine, and the wooden cock upon it flapped his wings with a strange rusty noise.
"Good morning, Father Dubreuil!" said both the young men.
"Good morning, my boys, good morning!" replied the inn-keeper, in an oily voice, smiling an oily smile. "Any news?"
"No, faith," answered Kasper. "Winter is upon us, the season for boar-hunting."
Then both, placing their rifles in a corner of the window, at hand in case of need, sat down at a table opposite their father, and drank, saying. "To our health!" as they had been taught to be always careful to do.
"So," said Materne, turning to the innkeeper, and apparently resuming a conversation that had been interrupted, "you think, Father Dubreuil, that we may hunt without fear in the wood of Baronies?"
"Oh! as for that I can't say," replied mine host, shrugging his shoulders; "I only know that at present the Allies have not got beyond Mutzig. But they don't injure any one; but receive all well-disposed people—who wish to fight the usurper."
"The usurper? Who is that?"
"Eh? Why, Napoleon Bonaparte, the usurper, to be sure. Look on the wall there."
He pointed to a large placard hanging near the clock.
"Look there, and you will see that the Austrians are our true friends."
Old Materne's brows knitted, but he repressed his feelings, and said,
"But I cannot read, Monsieur Dubreuil, nor my boys. Explain the matter to us."
Then the old publican, raising himself with much difficulty from his armchair, and puffing like a porpoise with the unwonted exertion, placed himself before the placard, with his arms folded across his enormous breast, and in a majestic tone read a proclamation of the allied sovereigns setting forth that they, said sovereigns, were waging war against Napoleon and not against France, and that, consequently, it behoved all good people to remain at home and to mind their own business, under pain of having their houses, goods, and chattels pillaged and burnt, and themselves shot.
The three hunters listened to all this, and then looked at each other.
When Dubreuil had finished reading, he again took his seat, saying,
"Well, you see now, do you not?"
"Where did you get that?" asked Kasper.
"It is posted everywhere."
"We are glad to hear it," said Materne, pressing the arm of Frantz, who had risen with flaming eyes. "Do you want some fire, Frantz? Here is my steel."
Frantz sat down, and the old man proceeded good-humoredly,
"And so, our good friends, the Austrians, will take nothing from us?"
"Well-disposed people have nothing to fear, but those who rise in arms are stripped of everything; which is only right, for it is not just that the good should suffer for the bad. Thus, for instance, you would be very well received at the allied headquarters; you know the country and could serve as guides, for which you would be well paid."
There was a moment of silence; again the three hunters gazed at each other; the father placed his hands upon the table, as if beseeching his sons to remain calm, but he himself was pale with rage.
The innkeeper, perceiving nothing of this, continued,
"You have more reason to fear in the woods of Baronies those villains of Dagsberg, of the Sarre, and of Blanru, who have revolted, and wish to commence '93 over again."
"Are you sure they have?" asked Materne, struggling hard to contain himself.
"Am I sure? You have only to look out the window and you will see them on the Donon road. They have captured the Anabaptist, Pelsly, and bound him to the foot of his bed; they are pillaging, stealing, destroying the roads; but let them beware! In a few days they will have their hands full, and it is not with a thousand, or ten thousand, men they will have to deal, but with hundreds of thousands. They will all be hung."
Materne arose.
"It is time for us to be on our way," said he shortly. "By two o'clock we must be in the woods. Farewell, Father Dubreuil."
All three rushed out, anger choking them.
"Reflect well upon what I told you," cried the innkeeper, from his arm-chair.
Once without, Materne turned with quivering lips, and cried,
"If I had not restrained myself, I would have broken the bottle over his head."
"And I," said Frantz, "would have thrust my bayonet through his body."
Kasper still stood at the threshold, hesitating. His fingers clutched the hilt of his hunting-knife, and his eyes were almost savage in their glare; but the old man seized him by the arm and dragged him away, saying:
"Away! We will meet the wretch again. To advise me to betray my country! Hullin said well when he told us to be on our guard."
They passed down the street gazing fiercely around.
At the end of the village, opposite the ancient cross, and near the church, they halted. Materne then, somewhat calmed, showed his sons the path which winds around Phrâmond, through the bushes, and said:
"You will take that foot-path. I will follow the road to Schirmeck, going slowly, so that you may get there as soon as I."
They separated, and the old hunter walked thoughtfully on, his head bowed, and his eyes fixed upon the ground, wondering all the while how he managed to restrain himself from breaking the inn-keeper's head. From time to time herds of cattle passed him, and flocks of sheep and goats, all on their way to the mountain. They came from Wisch, from Urmatt, and even from Mutzig, and the poor animals seemed scarcely able to move.
"Where are you going so fast?" cried the old hunter to the sad-looking herdsmen. "Have you not heard the proclamation of the Russians and Austrians?"
But they seemed in no humor for jesting, and replied:
"It is easy for you to laugh at us. Proclamations indeed! We know what they are worth. Those Russians and Austrians are pillaging and stealing all they can lay hands on; laying forced contributions, carrying off horses, cows, cattle, wagons."
"Hold there; it cannot be possible!" returned Materne. "They are the saviours of France; her brave, good friends. I cannot believe it. Such a beautiful proclamation!" "Go down into Alsace and see!" The poor fellows went on, dragging themselves wearily along, while the old hunter laughed bitterly.
As he approached Schirmeck, things grew worse. Wagons, cattle, horses, even flocks of geese, thronged the road, mingled with women and children, carrying whatever of their household effects they could bear off, and often beating their breasts and tearing their hair. The air was filled with wailing and lamentation, while ever and anon a cry arose,
"We are lost! The Cossacks! the Cossacks!"
These words of fear passed like lightning through the mass; women fainted, children stood up in the wagons to see further along the road, and Materne blushed for the cowardice of people who might have made a stout defence against the enemy.
Just outside Schirmeck, Frantz and Kasper rejoined their father, and all three entered the tavern of the Golden Key, kept by the widow Faltaux.
The poor woman and her two daughters were standing at the window gazing at the flight, and wringing their hands; for indeed the tumult was increasing every moment, and now cattle, men, and wagons fairly blocked the street, and shouts, screams, and even curses, arose on all sides.
Materne pushing open the door and seeing the three women standing pale, groaning, more dead than alive, struck his staff angrily upon the floor, and cried:
"Are you becoming mad, Mother Faltaux! You, who should set your daughters a good example? It is shameful!"
The old woman turned round and replied in a heart-broken voice:
"Ah Materne! If you only knew—"
"Knew what? The enemy are coming, but they won't eat you."
"No, but they will devour all I have! Old Ursula, of Schlestadt, arrived here last night, and says they are never satisfied. Ah! those Russians and Austrians—"
"But where are they?" cried the old hunter. "I have not yet seen one."
"They are in Alsace, near Urmatt, on their way hither."
"Well," observed Kasper, "before they arrive you may give us a cup of wine; here is a crown for you; you can hide it more easily than your casks."
One of the daughters went to the cellar to bring the refreshment, and at the same time several strangers entered. One was a seller of almanacs, from Strasbourg; the others were a wagoner from Sarrebrück, and two or three people from Mutzig, Wisch, and Shirmeck, who were flying with their cattle: all seemed completely jaded.
They sat down at the same table, opposite the windows, so that they might look out upon the road, and, the wine served, each began to tell all he knew. One said that the Cossacks had fired a village in Alsace, because candles were refused them for dessert after dinner; another that the Calmucks ate soap for cheese, and that many of them drank brandy by the pint, after putting handfuls of pepper in it; that their filthiness was beyond description; and that everything had to be hidden from them, for that there was nothing they would not devour. The stories these good people told, of what they had seen with their own eyes, seemed almost incredible.
Toward noon, the old hunter and his sons rose to depart, when suddenly a cry, louder than any they had yet heard, arose without,
"The Cossacks! The Cossacks!"
The entire party rushed to the door, except the three hunters, who contented themselves with opening a window and looking out. Every one was now fleeing across the fields; men, flocks, and wagons were scattering, like autumn leaves before the wind. In less than five minutes the road was clear, except in the village street, where the crowd was jammed and blocked by its mass. Materne gazed for a while and then shut the window.
"I see nothing," he said.
"Nor I," replied Kasper.
"I see how it is," cried the old hunter; "fear adds to the enemy's strength; and fear," he added, shrugging his shoulders disdainfully, "is a miserable thing. We have only one poor life to lose. Let us go."
They left the inn, the old man taking the road to the top of Hirschberg, his sons following. They soon reached the edge of the woods, and Materne sought the highest point, whence he might obtain a view of the plain; for he utterly despised the wild tales of the fugitives he had met.
When they reached the summit of the mountain—which forms a sort of promontory extending into the plain—they could see distinctly the enemy's position, three leagues away, between Urmatt and Lutzelhouse, like long black lines upon the snow; further on, the artillery and baggage appeared in dark masses. Other lines and masses were winding among the villages, and, notwithstanding the distance, the flashing of bayonets told that a column was on the march to Wisch.
After long gazing at the picture before him, the old hunter said thoughtfully:
"There are at least thirty thousand men yonder. They are advancing toward us, and we shall be assailed to-morrow, or the day after at the latest. It will be no holiday work to check them, my boys; but if they have numbers, we have a good position, and in such masses as those there will be no balls lost."
Having made these reflections, he measured the height of the sun, and added:
"It is now two o'clock, and we know all we want to know. Let us return to the bivouac."
The young men slung their rifles upon their backs, and, leaving the valley of the Broque to the left, they pushed up the steep ascent of Hengsbach and descended on the further side, without following any path through the snow, but guiding themselves solely by the peaks, to cut short their journey.
They had thus proceeded for about two hours; the winter sun was drooping to the horizon, and night was fast approaching, but calm and light. They had only to cross the solitary gorge of Riel, which forms a wide circular basin in the midst of the forest, enclosing a blue lake, often the resort of the roebuck.
Suddenly, as they left the cover of the trees, the old man stopped short behind a clump of bushes.
"Hist!"
He pointed to the little lake, which was covered with a thin and transparent coating of ice. A strange spectacle greeted their eyes. Twenty Cossacks, with matted yellow beards, heads covered with old funnel-shaped caps of the skin of some animal, and long ragged cloaks hanging from their shoulders, were before them, seated on their little horses. Their stirrups were simply looped ropes, and the steeds, with long manes, thin tails, and flanks matted with yellow, black, and white, looked not unlike goats. Some of the riders were armed only with long lances, others with sabres, others with merely a hatchet hanging by a cord from their saddle, and a large horse-pistol in their belt. Some gazed with ecstasy upon the lines of green firs, and one tall, lean fellow was breaking the ice with the butt of his spear, while his horse drank. Others dismounted, and began to remove the snow preparatory to encamping.
They formed a singular picture—those men from afar, with their bronzed features, flat foreheads and noses, and grey fluttering rags, as they stood by the side of the lake under the tall tree-covered crags. It seemed a glimpse of another world than the one we live in, and as the three hunters gazed and caught the sounds of their uncouth speech, curiosity for a while mastered all other feelings. But Kasper and Frantz soon fixed their long bayonets on their rifles and retired once more into the cover of the woods. They reached a rock some twenty feet high, which Materne climbed; then, after a few words exchanged in a low voice, Kasper examined his priming, slowly brought his piece to his shoulder, and aimed, while his brother stood by ready to follow his example.
The Cossack whose horse was drinking was about two hundred paces from our little party. The report of the rifle rang through the forest and awoke the deep echoes of the gorge, and the horseman bent forward and disappeared beneath the ice of the lake.
It would be impossible to describe the stupefaction which seemed to seize the band. The echoes rolled like a volley of musketry; the dismounted barbarians bounded on their steeds, gazing wildly around, while a thick wreath of smoke rolled above the clump of trees behind which the hunters stood.
Kasper had in a moment reloaded, but at the same instant the Cossacks dashed toward the slope of Hartz, following in single file and shouting savagely, "Hurrah! Hurrah!"
They disappeared like a flash, and as Kasper aimed again the last horse disappeared in the woods.
The steed of the dead Cossack stood alone by the lake. His fallen master's foot yet remained in the stirrup, although the body was submerged in the water.
Materne listened on his rock, and then said joyfully:
"They are gone! Let us press on. Frantz, remain here for a while. If any should return—"
But despite this direction all three ran to where the horse yet stood, and Materne, seizing the animal's bridle, cried:
"Now, old fellow, we will teach thee to speak French. These Cossacks have famous horses, my boys," he continued, "and when I am too old to go afoot, I will keep this one to hunt with."
"Let us go," cried Kasper.
Toward six o'clock they heard the first challenge of their sentinels:
"Who goes there?"
"France!" answered Materne, advancing.
He was soon recognized, and all rushed forth to meet the three hunters. Hullin himself, as curious as the rest, came out with Doctor Lorquin. The partisans stood around the horse, gazing with looks of wonder and admiration.
"It is a Cossack's," said Hullin, squeezing his old friend's hand.
"Yes, Jean-Claude; we captured it at the pond of Riel. Kasper shot its master."
Kasper, leaning upon his rifle, seemed well pleased with his prize, and old Materne, rubbing his hands, added:
"We were determined to bring something back with us, for my boys and I never return empty-handed."
Hullin took him aside, and they entered the farm-house together, while the young hunters gratified the curiosity of their comrades.
Chapter XIII.
That whole night long the little farm of the Anabaptist was filled with partisans going and coming.
Hullin had established his headquarters in the large hall of the ground floor of the house; on this floor, too, was the hospital, and the farm people occupied the upper stories.
Although the night was calm and innumerable stars shone in the sky, the cold was so keen that the frost seemed almost an inch thick upon the window-panes.
Without, the cry of "Who goes there?" occasionally broke the stillness, while ever and anon the howling of wolves was borne on the air from the neighboring peaks; for since 1812 wolves had followed our armies by hundreds, and now, stretched on the snow, their pointed muzzles between their fore-paws, they called from Grosmann to Donon, and from Donon to Grosmann, until the breeze seemed filled with their plaintive cries. More than one mountaineer grew pale as he listened to them, and muttered:
"It is the song of death; he scents the battle from afar, and calls us to follow him."
Then the cattle lowed in their stables, and the horses neighed with affright.
Some thirty fires were burning on the plateau where was the camp; the old Anabaptist's wood-pile had paid tribute, and log after log was heaped on; but though the face might scorch, the back quivered with the cold, and frost hung from the beards and moustaches of those who stood warming their backs.
Hullin, in the house, sat before the great fir table, absorbed in thought. From the latest reports he had received, he was convinced that the first attack would be made the next day. He had had cartridges distributed, had doubled the sentries, ordered patrols through the mountain, and fixed the posts of all along the abatis. He had also caused Piorette, Jerome of Saint-Quirin, and Labarbe to send their best marksmen to him.
The hall where he sat was lit by a dim lantern, and full of snow; and every moment his officers came and went, their hats drawn far down over their heads, and icicles hanging from their beards.
"Master Jean-Claude, something is moving near Grandfontaine; we can hear horses galloping."
"Master Jean-Claude, the brandy is frozen."
"Master Jean-Claude, many of the men are without powder."
Such were the reports and complaints that every moment assailed the leader's ears.
"Watch well toward Grandfontaine and change the sentries on that side every half-hour."
"Thaw the brandy at the fires."
"Wait until Dives comes; he has ammunition. Distribute what cartridges remain, and let all who have more than twenty rounds divide the surplus among their comrades."
And so the night passed.
Toward five in the morning Kasper reported that Marc-Dives with a load of cartridges, Catherine Lefevre, and a detachment from Labarbe had arrived and were at the farm.
The news eased the old sabot-maker's mind, for he feared greatly the result of a delay in the supplies. He rose at once and went out with Kasper.
At the approach of day, huge masses of fog had begun to rise from the valley; the fires crackled in the damp air, and all around lay the sleeping mountaineers. All was silent, and a cloud, purple or grey, as the fire rose or fell, hung around each bivouac. Further off, the dim outlines of the sentinels could be seen as they paced to and fro with arms shouldered, or stood gazing into the misty abysses.
To the right, fifty yards beyond the last fire, horses were neighing, and men stamping to keep their feet warm.
"Master Jean-Claude is coming," said Kasper approaching the group.
One of the partisans had just thrown a bundle of dry sticks upon the fire, and by the light of the blaze Hullin saw Marc-Dives and his twelve men on horseback, standing sabre in hand, motionless around their charge. Catherine was further on, half covered with the straw of her wagon, her back leaning against a large cask; behind her were a huge pot, a gridiron, a fresh-killed hog ready for cooking, and some strings of onions and cabbages for soup. All started for a moment from the darkness, and disappeared again as the blaze fell.
Dives left his party and rode forward.
"Is that you, Jean-Claude?"
"Yes, Marc."
"I have already several thousand cartridges. Hexe-Baizel is working night and day."
"Good! good!"
"And Catherine Lefevre is here with provisions."
"We shall need all, Marc. The battle is near."
"I do not doubt it; we shall not have long to wait. But where shall I put the powder?"
"Yonder; under the shed, behind the house. Is that you, Catherine?"
"It is indeed, Jean-Claude. A cold morning."
"Always the same, Catherine. Do you fear nothing?"
"Would I be a woman if I lacked curiosity? I must see all that is going on, you know."
"Yes, you have always excuses for your good deeds."
"No compliments, Hullin. People cannot live on air, and I have taken my measures. Yesterday we killed an ox—poor Schwartz—he weighed nine hundred, and I have brought a quarter for soup. Let me warm myself."
She threw the reins to Duchene and alighted, saying:
"Those fires yonder are a pretty sight, but where is Louise?"
"Louise has passed the night making bandages with Pelsly's two daughters. She is there in the hospital, where you see my lantern shining."
"Poor child!" said Catherine; "I will run and help her. It will warm me."
Hullin gazing at her retreating figure could only mutter, "What a woman! What a woman!"
Dives and his men took the powder to the shed; and what was Jean-Claude's surprise, on approaching the nearest fire, to see the fool Yegof, his crown upon his head, gravely sitting upon a stone, his feet at the embers, and his rags draped around him like a royal mantle.
Nothing could be stranger than his figure. He was the only one waking there, and seemed a barbarian king surrounded by his sleeping horde.
Hullin, however, only saw the fool, and gently placing his hand upon his shoulder, said in a tone of ironical respect:
"Hail, Yegof! thou art come to offer us the aid of thine invincible arm and the help of thy numberless armies!"
The fool, without showing the least surprise, answered:
"That depends upon thee, Hullin. Thy fate and that of thy people around thee are in thy hands. I have checked my wrath, and I leave it to thee to pronounce the sentence."
"What sentence?" asked Jean-Claude.
The fool, without replying, continued in a low and solemn tone:
"We are here now, as we were sixteen hundred years ago, on the eve of a great battle. Then I, the chief of so many nations, came to thy clan to demand a passage—"
"Sixteen hundred years ago!" interrupted Hullin; "that would make us fearfully old, Yegof. But no matter; go on."
"Yes," said the fool; "but thine obstinacy would hear nothing; hundreds of dead lie at Blutfeld; they cry for vengeance!"
"Ah! yes, Blutfeld," said Jean-Claude; "it is an old story; I have heard you tell it before."
Yegof rose with flushed face and flashing eyes.
"Barest thou boast of thy victory?" he cried. "But beware, beware! Blood calls for blood!"
Then his tone softened, and he added:
"Listen! I would not harm thee; thou art brave, and the children of thy race may mingle their blood with mine. I desire thy alliance—thou knowest it."
"He is coming back to Louise," thought Jean-Claude, and, foreseeing another demand in form, he said:
"Yegof, I am sorry, but I must leave you; I have so many things to see to—"
The fool bent an angry look on him.
"Dost refuse me thy daughter?" he cried, raising his finger solemnly.
"We will talk of it hereafter."
"Thou refusest!"
"Your cries are arousing my men, Yegof."
"Thou hast refused, and for the third time. Beware! Beware!"
Hullin, despairing of calming him, strode away, but the fool's voice followed:
"Woe to thee, Huldrix! Thy latest hour is nigh. Soon will the wolves banquet upon thy flesh! The storm of my wrath is unchained, and for thee and thine there is no longer grace, pity, nor mercy! Thou hast spoken thy doom!"
And throwing the ragged end of his cloak over his shoulder, the poor wretch hurried toward the peak of Donon.
Many of the partisans, half awakened by his voice, gazed with dull eyes at his vanishing form. They heard a flapping of wings around the fire, but it seemed like a dream, and they turned and slept again.
An hour later, the horn of Lagarmitte sounded the reveille. In a few moments every one was upon his feet.
The chiefs assembled their men. Some went to the shed, where cartridges were distributed; others filled their flasks at the cask, but everything was done in order. Then each platoon departed in the grey dawn to take its place at the abatis.
When the sun rose, the farm was deserted, and, save five or six fires yet smoking, nothing announced that the partisans held all the passes of the mountain, and had so lately been encamped there.