These last words were distinctly heard by him to whom they were addressed, and as he again turned up his face, a ray of triumph illumined his sunken eyes; he did not, however, or he could not speak, for the heat of the battle was carried back again towards the gate, and the tumultuous sea of fighting men was hurried away from the spot where they had been contending.
While this scene was going on in the street, another set of combatants were engaged near the gate; and here two men of very different natures, but of similar station in life, found themselves together during a temporary pause, after a protracted struggle. These were Michael Stein, and Auguste Emile Septimus Plume. In spite of all that he had himself said against the trade, Michael had, in his old age, turned soldier, and had been fighting sturdily with a huge woodman’s axe, a weapon which he had chanced to meet with, and the use of which came readily to his hand: he was now sitting on the step of the gate-house, wiping with the sleeve of his coat the perspiration which the unaccustomed work had brought to his forehead, and listening to the praises of M. Plume, who was standing over him, leaning on his sword.
“That axe of yours,” said Auguste, “is a singular weapon, and perhaps not entirely fitted for military purposes; but I must own you have used it well—it fell with decided effect this morning on many a poor fellow’s head and shoulders. You have probably, my friend, fought many a battle with these fellows of Mayence?”
“Not a battle I ever fought before, Monsieur,” said Michael; “nor do I ever wish to fight another; it’s horrid weary work, this of knocking men’s brains out, not to talk of the chance a man runs of losing his own.”
“But ain’t you one of the Vendeans, my gallant comrade?” asked Auguste.
“If you mean, did I come over from Poitou with them, I certainly did; but I only came because I could not help it, and because I could not live to see a little girl I have fall into the hands of the butchers; it was not for any love of fighting that I came.”
“But yet you take to it kindly, my friend. I am considered to know something of the sword exercise, and I thought you wielded that axe, as though your arm had been used to a sabre this many a year.”
“I am a blacksmith,” said Michael, shortly; “and I have been fifty years ringing hammers on an anvil: that makes a man’s arm lusty.”
“Indeed,” said the other, “a blacksmith—well, you may be a blacksmith, and yet a good soldier. Now you wouldn’t believe it, but I’m a baker—you wouldn’t take me to be a baker by my trade, would you now?”
Michael Stein looked at him, and told him he couldn’t well give an opinion, as he knew nothing about bakers.