The captain of gendarmes had his arm shattered, the colonel of dragoons was wounded in the thigh. Roland alone, covered with blood that was not his own, had not a scratch. Two of the prisoners were so grievously wounded that it was impossible for them to walk, and the soldiers were obliged to carry them on an improvised litter. Torches were lighted, and the whole troop, with the prisoners, took the road to the town.
As they were leaving the forest to branch into the high-road, the gallop of a horse was heard. It came on rapidly. “Go on,” said Roland; “I will stay here and find out what this means.”
It was a rider, who, as we have said, was advancing at full speed.
“Who goes there?” cried Roland, raising his carbine when the rider was about twenty paces from him.
“One more prisoner, Monsieur de Montrevel,” replied the rider, “I could not be in at the fight, but I will at least go to the scaffold. Where are my friends?”
“There, sir,” replied Roland, who had recognized, not the face, but the voice of the rider, a voice which he now heard for the third time. As he spoke, he pointed to the little group in the centre of the soldiers who were making their way along the road from Ceyzeriat to Bourg.
“I am glad to see that no harm has befallen you, M. de Montrevel,” said the young man, with great courtesy; “I assure you it gives me much happiness.” And spurring his horse, he was beside the soldiers and gendarmes in a few strides. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” he said, springing from his horse, “I claim a place among my three friends, the Vicomte de Jayat, the Comte de Valensolle, and the Marquis de Ribier.”
The three prisoners gave a cry of admiration and held out their hands to their friend. The two wounded men lifted themselves up on their litters, and murmured: “Well done, Sainte-Hermine, well done!”
“I do believe, God help me!” cried Roland, “that those brigands will have the nobler side of the affair!”